THE  STRANGE  CASE  OF 
MORTIMER  FENLEY 


.  OF  CAWF.  T-TBIT^Y.  WW 


THE  STRANGE  CASE  OF 
MORTIMER  FENLEY 


BY 

LOUIS  TRACY 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING, 
NUMBER  SEVENTEEN,  ETC. 


GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEWYORK 

Made  in  the  United  State,  of  America 


COPYRIGHT.  1019,  BY 
EDWARD  J.  CLODB 


PRINTED  IN  THE  T7NITED   STATES  OP  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.     THE  WATER  NYMPHS     ...  1 

II.    ' '  WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING  ?  "  19 

ni.    THE  HOUNDS 39 

IV.    BREAKING  COVER       ....  59 
V.    A  FAMILY  GATHERING     ...  79 
VI.     WHEREIN    FURNEAUX    SEEKS    IN- 
SPIRATION          101 

VII.     SOME  SIDE  ISSUES   ....  123 

VIII.     COINCIDENCES     .       .       .       .       .  145 
IX.    WHEREIN  AN  ARTIST  BECOMES  A 

MAN  OF  ACTION  .       .       .       .  166 

X.     FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS     .  189 

XT.     SOME   PRELIMINARY    SKIRMISHING  211 
XTT.    WHEREIN  SCOTLAND  YARD  is  DINED 

AND  WINED 229 

Xm.     CLOSE  QUARTERS       ....  246 

XIV.     THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET  .       .  266 

XV.     SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS      .       .       .286 

XVI.     THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY       .       .  305 

XVTL    THE  SETTLEMENT  324 


2133235 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  WATER  NYMPHS 

DOES  an  evil  deed  cast  a  shadow  in  ad- 
vance? Does  premeditated  crime  spread 
a  baleful  aura  which  affects  certain 
highly-strung  temperaments  just  as  the  sensa- 
tion of  a  wave  of  cold  air  rising  from  the  spine 
to  the  head  may  be  a  forewarning  of  epilepsy  or 
hysteria?  John  Trenholme  had  cause  to  think 
so  one  bright  June  morning  in  1912,  and  he  has 
never  ceased  to  believe  it,  though  the  events 
which  made  him  an  outstanding  figure  in  the 
"  Strange  Case  of  Mortimer  Fenley,"  as  the 
murder  of  a  prominent  man  in  the  City  of  Lon- 
don came  to  be  known,  have  long  since  been 
swept  into  oblivion  by  nearly  five  years  of  war. 
Even  the  sun  became  a  prime  agent  of  the 
occult  that  morning.  It  found  a  chink  in  a 
blind  and  threw  a  bar  of  vivid  light  across  the 
face  of  a  young  man  lying  asleep  in  the  front 
bedroom  of  the  " White  Horse  Inn"  at  Eoxton. 
It  crept  onward  from  a  firm,  well-molded  chin 
to  lips  now  tight  set,  though  not  lacking  signs 
that  they  would  open  readily  in  a  smile  and  per- 
haps reveal  two  rows  of  strong,  white,  even 
teeth.  Indeed,  when  that  strip  of  sunshine 
i 


2  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

touched  and  wanned  them,  the  smile  came;  so 
the  sleeper  was  dreaming,  and  pleasantly. 

But  the  earth  stays  not  for  men,  no  matter 
what  their  dreams.  In  a  few  minutes  the  radi- 
ant line  reached  the  sleeper's  eyes,  and  he 
awoke.  Naturally,  he  stared  straight  at  the  dis- 
turber of  his  slumbers ;  and  being  a  mere  man, 
who  emulated  not  the  ways  of  eagles,  was 
routed  at  the  first  glance. 

More  than  that,  he  was  thoroughly  aroused, 
and  sprang  out  of  bed  with  a  celerity  that  would 
have  given  many  another  young  man  a  headache 
during  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

But  John  Trenholme,  artist  by  profession, 
was  somewhat  of  a  light-hearted  vagabond  by 
instinct;  if  the  artist  was  ready  to  be  annoyed 
because  of  an  imaginary  loss  of  precious  day- 
light, the  vagabond  laughed  cheerily  when  he 
blinked  at  a  clock  and  learned  that  the  hour 
still  lacked  some  minutes  of  half  past  five  in  the 
morning. 

"By  gad,"  he  grinned,  pulling  up  the  blind, 
"I  was  scared  stiff.  I  thought  the  blessed 
alarm  had  missed  fire,  and  that  I  had  been  ly- 
ing here  like  a  hog  during  the  best  part  of  the 
finest  day  England  has  seen  this  year." 

Evidently  he  was  still  young  enough  to  deal 
in  superlatives,  for  there  had  been  other  fine 
days  that  Summer;  moreover,  in  likening  him- 
self to  a  pig,  he  was  ridiculously  unfair  to  six 
feet  of  athletic  symmetry  in  which  it  would  be 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  3 

difficult  to  detect  any  marked  resemblance  to 
the  animal  whose  name  is  a  synonym  for  lazi- 
ness. 

On  the  way  to  the  bathroom  he  stopped  to 
listen  for  sounds  of  an  aroused  household,  but 
the  inmates  of  the  White  Horse  Inn  were  still 
taking  life  easily. 

"Eliza  vows  she  can  hear  that  alarm  in  her 
room,"  he  communed.  "Well,  suppose  we  as- 
sist nature,  always  a  laudable  thing  in  itself, 
and  peculiarly  excellent  when  breakfast  is  there- 
by advanced  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

Eliza  was  the  inn's  stout  and  voluble  cook- 
housekeeper,  and  her  attic  lay  directly  above 
Trenholme's  room.  He  went  back  for  the  clock, 
crept  swiftly  upstairs,  opened  a  door  a  few 
inches,  and  put  the  infernal  machine  inside, 
close  to  the  wall.  He  was  splashing  in  the  bath 
when  a  harsh  and  penetrating  din  jarred 
through  the  house,  and  a  slight  scream  showed 
that  Eliza  had  been  duly  "alarmed." 

A  few  minutes  later  came  a  heavy  thump  on 
the  bathroom  door. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Trenholme!"  cried  an  irate 
female  voice.  "You've  been  up  to  your  tricks, 
have  you?  It'll  be  my  turn  when  I  make  your 
coffee;  I'll  pepper  an'  salt  it!" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Eliza?"  he  shouted. 

"Matter!  Frightenin'  a  body  like  that!  I 
thought  a  lot  o'  suffrigettes  were  smashin'  the 
windows  of  the  snug. ' ' 


A  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

Eliza  was  still  touchy  when  Trenholme  ven- 
tured to  peep  into  the  kitchen. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  dare  show  your  face,' ' 
she  cried  wrathfully.  "The  impidence  of  men 
nowadays!  Just  fancy  you  comin'  an'  openin' 
my  door!" 

* '  But,  cherie,  what  have  I  done  ? "  he  inquired, 
his  brown  eyes  wide  with  astonishment. 

"I'm  not  your  cherry,  nor  your  peach, 
neither.  Who  put  that  clock  in  my  room?" 

"What  clock,  ma  belle?" 

Eliza  picked  up  an  egg,  and  bent  so  fiery  a 
glance  on  the  intruder  that  he  dodged  out  of 
sight  for  a  second. 

"Listen,  carissima,"  he  pleaded,  peering 
round  the  jamb  of  the  door  again.  "If  the 
alarm  found  its  way  upstairs  I  must  have  been 
walking  in  my  sleep.  While  you  were  dream- 
ing of  suffragettes  I  may  have  been  dreaming 
of  you. ' ' 

"Stop  there  a  bit  longer,  chatterin'  and  callin' 
me  names,  an'  your  bacon  will  be  frizzled  to  a 
cinder,"  she  retorted. 

"But  I  really  hoped  to  save  you  some  trouble 
by  carrying  in  the  breakfast  tray  myself.  I 
hate  to  see  a  jolly,  good-tempered  woman  of 
your  splendid  physique  working  yourself  to  a 
shadow." 

Eliza  squared  her  elbows  as  a  preliminary 
to  another  outburst,  when  the  stairs  creaked. 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  5 

Mary,  the  "help,"  was  arriving  hurriedly,  in 
curl  papers. 

"Oh,  2/ow've  condescended  to  get  up,  have 
you  f ' '  was  the  greeting  Mary  received. 

"Why,  it's  on'y  ten  minutes  to  six!"  cried 
the  astonished  girl,  gazing  at  a  grandfather's 
clock  as  if  it  were  bewitched. 

"You've  never  had  such  a  shock  since  you 
were  born,"  went  on  the  sarcastic  Eliza.  "But 
don 't  thank  me,  my  girl.  Thank  Mr.  Trenholme, 
the  gentleman  stannin'  there  grinnin'  like  a 
Cheshire  cat.  Talk  to  him  nicely,  an'  p'raps 
he'll  paint  your  picter,  an'  then  your  special 
butcher  boy  will  see  how  beautiful  you  reelly 
are." 

"Jim  don't  need  tellin'  anything  about  that," 
said  the  girl,  smiling,  for  Eliza's  bark  was  no- 
toriously worse  than  her  bite. 

"Jim!"  came  the  snorting  comment.  "The 
first  man  who  ever  axed  me  to  marry  him  was 
called  Jim,  an'  when,  like  a  wise  woman,  I  said 
'No,'  he  went  away  an'  'listed  in  the  Eoyal 
Artillery  an'  lost  his  leg  in  a  war — that's  what 
Jim  did." 

"What  a  piece  of  luck  you  didn't  accept 
him  ! ' '  put  on  Trenholme. 

"An'  why,  I'd  like  to  know!" 

"Because  he  began  by  losing  his  head  over 
you.  If  a  leg  was  missing,  too,  there  wasn't 
much  of  Jim  left,  was  there?" 

Mary  giggled,  and  Eliza  seized  the  egg  again; 


6  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

so  Trenholme  ran  to  his  sitting-room.  Within 
half  an  hour  he  was  passing  through  the  High 
Street,  bidding  an  affable  "Good  morning"  to 
such  early  risers  as  he  met,  and  evidently  well 
content  with  himself  and  the  world  in  general. 
His  artist's  kit  revealed  his  profession  even  to 
the  uncritical  eye,  but  no  student  of  men  could 
have  failed  to  guess  his  bent  were  he  habited 
in  the  garb  of  a  costermonger.  The  painter  and 
the  poet  are  the  last  of  the  Bohemians,  and 
John  Trenholme  was  a  Bohemian  to  the  tips  of 
his  fingers. 

He  carried  himself  like  a  cavalier,  but  the  di- 
vine flame  of  art  Mndled  in  his  eye.  He  had 
learned  how  to  paint  in  Julien's  studio,  and  that 
same  school  had  taught  him  to  despise  conven- 
tion. He  looked  on  nature  as  a  series  of  ex- 
quisite pictures,  and  regarded  men  and  women 
in  the  mass  as  creatures  that  occasionally  fitted 
into  the  landscape.  He  was  heart  whole  and 
fancy  free.  At  twenty-five  he  had  already  ex- 
hibited three  times  in  the  Salon,  and  was  spoken 
of  by  the  critics  as  a  painter  of  much  promise, 
which  is  the  critical  method  of  waiting  to  see 
how  the  cat  jumps  when  an  artist  of  genius  and 
originality  arrests  attention. 

He  had  peculiarly  luminous  brown  eyes  set 
well  apart  in  a  face  which  won  the  prompt  con- 
fidence of  women,  children  and  dogs.  He  was 
splendidly  built  for  an  out-door  life,  and  moved 
with  a  long,  supple  stride,  a  gait  which  people 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  7 

mistook  for  lounging  until  they  walked  with 
him,  and  found  that  the  pace  was  something 
over  four  miles  an  hour.  Add  to  these  personal 
traits  the  fact  that  he  had  dwelt  in  Roxton  ex- 
actly two  days  and  a  half,  and  was  already  on 
speaking  terms  with  most  of  the  inhabitants, 
and  you  have  a  fair  notion  of  John  Trenholme's 
appearance  and  ways. 

There  remains  but  to  add  that  he  was  com- 
missioned by  a  magazine  to  visit  this  old-world 
Hertfordshire  village  and  depict  some  of  its 
beauties  before  a  projected  railway  introduced 
the  jerry-builder  and  a  sewerage  scheme,  and 
his  presence  in  the  White  Horse  Inn  is  ex- 
plained. He  had  sketched  the  straggling  High 
Street,  the  green,  the  inn  itself,  boasting  a  li- 
cense six  hundred  years  old,  the  undulating 
common,  the  church  with  its  lych  gate,  the  ivy- 
clad  ruin  known  as  "The  Castle,'*  with  its 
square  Norman  keep  still  frowning  at  an  Eng- 
lish countryside,  and  there  was  left  only  an 
Elizabethan  mansion,  curiously  misnamed  "The 
Towers,"  to  be  transferred  to  his  portfolio. 
Here,  oddly  enough,  he  had  been  rebuffed.  A 
note  to  the  owner,  Mortimer  Fenley,  banker 
and  super  City  man,  asking  permission  to  enter 
the  park  of  an  afternoon,  had  met  with  a  curt 
refusal. 

Trenholme,  of  course,  was  surprised,  since  he 
was  paying  the  man  a  rare  compliment ;  he  had 
expressed  in  the  inn  his  full  and  free  opinion 


8  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

concerning  all  money  grubbers,  and  the  Fenley 
species  thereof  in  particular;  whereupon  the 
stout  Eliza,  who  classed  the  Fenley  family  as 
" rubbish,"  informed  him  that  there  was  a  right 
of  way  through  the  park,  and  that  from  a  cer- 
tain point  near  a  lake  he  could  sketch  the  grand 
old  manor  house  to  his  heart's  content,  let  the 
Fenleys  and  their  keepers  scowl  as  they  chose. 

The  village  barber,  too,  bore  out  Eliza 's  state- 
ment. 

"A  rare  old  row  there  was  in  Roxton  twenty 
year  ago,  when  Fenley  fust  kem  here,  an'  tried 
to  close  the  path,"  said  the  barber.  "But  we 
beat  him,  we  did,  an'  well  he  knows  it.  Not 
many  folk  use  it  nowadays,  'coss  the  artful 
ole  dodger  opened  a  new  road  to  the  station; 
but  some  of  us  makes  a  point  of  strollin'  that 
way  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  just  to  look  at  the 
pheasants  an'  rabbits,  an'  it's  a  treat  to  see 
the  head  keeper's  face  when  we  go  through  the 
lodge  gates  at  the  Easton  end,  for  that  is  the 
line  the  path  takes." 

Here  followed  a  detailed  description,  for  the 
Roxton  barber,  like  every  other  barber,  could 
chatter  like  a  magpie;  it  was  in  this  wise  that 
Trenholme  was  able  to  defy  the  laws  forbidding 
trespass,  and  score  off  the  seemingly  uncivil 
owner  of  a  historical  dwelling. 

He  little  imagined,  that  glorious  June  morn- 
ing, that  he  was  entering  on  a  road  of  strange 
adventure.  He  had  chosen  an  early  hour  pur- 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  9 

posely.  Not  only  were  the  lights  and  shadows 
perfect  for  water  color,  but  it  was  highly  prob- 
able that  he  would  be  able  to  come  and  go  with- 
out attracting  attention.  He  had  no  wish  to 
annoy  Fenley,  or  quarrel  with  the  man's  myrmi- 
dons. Indeed,  he  would  not  have  visited  the 
estate  at  all  if  the  magazine  editor  had  not  speci- 
ally stipulated  for  a  full-page  drawing  of  the 
house. 

Now,  all  would  have  been  well  had  the  bar- 
ber's directions  proved  as  bald  in  spirit  as  they 
were  in  letter. 

" After  passin'  'The  Waggoner's  Rest,' 
you'll  come  to  a  pair  of  iron  gates  on  the  right," 
he  had  said.  "On  one  side  there's  a  swing  gate. 
Go  through,  an'  make  straight  for  a  clump  of 
cedars  on  top  of  a  little  hill.  There  mayn't  be 
much  of  a  path,  but  that's  it.  It's  reelly  a 
short  cut  to  the  Easton  gate  on  the  London 
road." 

Yet  who  could  guess  what  a  snare  for  an  ar- 
tist's feet  lay  in  those  few  words?  How  could 
Trenholme  realize  that  "a.  pair  of  iron  gates" 
would  prove  to  be  an  almost  perfect  example  of 
Christopher  Wren's  genius  as  a  designer  of 
wrought  iron?  Trenholme 's  eyes  sparkled 
when  he  beheld  this  prize,  with  its  acanthus 
leaves  and  roses  beaten  out  with  wonderful 
freedom  and  beauty  of  curve.  A  careful  draw- 
ing was  the  result.  Another  result,  uncounted 
by  him,  but  of  singular  importance  in  its  out- 


10  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

come  was  the  delay  of  forty  minutes  thus  en- 
tailed. 

He  crossed  an  undulating  park,  and  had  no 
difficulty  in  tracing  an  almost  disused  path  in 
certain  grass-grown  furrows  leading  past  the 
group  of  cedars.  On  reaching  this  point  he  ob- 
tained a  fair  view  of  the  mansion ;  but  the  sun 
was  directly  behind  him,  as  the  house  faced 
southeast,  and  he  decided  to  encroach  some  few 
yards  on  private  property.  A  brier-laden  slope 
fell  from  the  other  side  of  the  trees  to  a  delight- 
ful-looking lake  fed  by  a  tiny  cascade  on  the 
east  side.  An  ideal  spot,  he  thought. 

This,  then,  was  the  stage  setting:  Trenholme, 
screened  by  black  cedars  and  luxuriant  brush- 
wood, was  seated  about  fifty  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  lake  and  some  forty  yards  from  its  near- 
est sedges.  The  lake  itself,  largely  artificial, 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  waterfall,  which  gurgled 
and  splashed  down  a  miniature  precipice  of 
moss-covered  bowlders.  Here  and  there  a  rock, 
a  copper  beech,  a  silver  larch,  or  a  few  flower- 
ing shrubs  cast  strong  shadows  on  the  dark, 
pellucid  mirror  beneath.  On  a  cunningly  con- 
trived promontory  of  brown  rock  stood  a  white 
marble  statue  of  Venus  Aphrodite,  and  the  rip- 
ples from  the  cascade  seemed  to  endow  with 
life  the  shimmering  reflection  of  the  goddess. 

Beyond  the  lake  a  smooth  lawn,  dotted  with 
fine  old  oaks  and  chestnuts,  rose  gently  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  Italian  gardens  in  front 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  11 

of  the  house.  To  the  left,  the  park  was  bounded 
by  woods.  To  the  right  was  another  wood, 
partly  concealing  a  series  of  ravines  and  dis- 
used quarries.  Altogether  a  charming  setting 
for  an  Elizabethan  manor,  pastoral,  peaceful, 
quite  English,  and  seeming  on  that  placid  June 
morning  so  remote  from  the  crowded  mart  that 
it  was  hard  to  believe  the  nearest  milestone, 
with  its  "London,  30  miles. " 

Had  Trenholme  glanced  at  his  watch  he  would 
have  discovered  that  the  hour  was  now  half  past 
seven,  or  nearly  an  hour  later  than  he  had 
planned.  But  Art,  which  is  long-lived,  recks 
little  of  Time,  an  evanescent  thing.  He  was  en- 
thusiastic over  his  subject.  He  would  make  not 
one  sketch,  but  two.  That  lake,  like  the  gates, 
was  worthy  of  immortality.  Of  course,  the 
house  must  come  first.  He  unpacked  a  canvas 
hold-all,  and  soon  was  busy. 

He  worked  with  the  speed  and  assured  confi- 
dence of  a  master.  By  years  of  patient  indus- 
try he  had  wrested  from  Nature  the  secrets  of 
her  tints  and  tone  values.  Quickly  there  grew 
into  being  an  exquisitely  bright  and  well  bal- 
anced drawing,  impressionist,  but  true;  a  har- 
mony of  color  and  atmosphere.  Leaving  subtle- 
ties to  the  quiet  thought  of  the  studio,  he  turned 
to  the  lake.  Here  the  lights  and  shadows  were 
bolder.  They  demanded  the  accurate  appraise- 
ment of  the  half  closed  eye.  He  was  so  absorbed 
in  his  task  that  he  was  blithely  unconscious  of 


12  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

the  approach  of  a  girl  from  the  house,  and  his 
first  glimpse  of  her  was  forthcoming  when  she 
crossed  the  last  spread  of  velvet  sward  which 
separated  a  cluster  of  rhododendrons  in  the 
middle  distance  from  the  farther  edge  of  the 
lake. 

It  was  not  altogether  surprising  that  he  had 
not  seen  her  earlier.  She  wore  a  green  coat  and 
skirt  and  a  most  curiously  shaped  hat  of  the 
same  hue,  so  that  her  colors  blended  with  the 
landscape.  Moreover,  she  was  walking  rapidly, 
and  had  covered  the  intervening  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  four  minutes  or  less. 

He  thought  at  first  that  she  was  heading 
straight  for  his  lofty  perch,  and  was  perhaps 
bent  on  questioning  his  right  to  be  there  at  all. 
But  he  was  promptly  undeceived.  Her  mind 
was  set  on  one  object,  and  her  eyes  did  not 
travel  beyond  it.  She  no  more  suspected  that 
an  artist  was  lurking  in  the  shade  of  the  cedars 
than  she  did  that  the  man  in  the  moon  was  gaz- 
ing blandly  at  her  above  their  close-packed  foli- 
age. She  came  on  with  rapid,  graceful  strides, 
stood  for  a  moment  by  the  side  of  the  Venus, 
and  then,  while  Trenholme  literally  gasped  for 
breath,  shed  coat,  skirt  and  shoes,  revealing  a 
slim  form  clad  in  a  dark  blue  bathing  costume, 
and  dived  into  the  lake. 

Trenholme  had  never  felt  more  surprised. 
The  change  of  costume  was  so  unexpected,  the 
girl's  complete  ignorance  of  his  presence  so 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  13 

obvious,  that  lie  regarded  himself  as  a  con- 
fessed intruder,  somewhat  akin  to  Peeping  Tom 
of  Coventry.  He  was  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to 
act.  If  he  stood  up  and  essayed  a  hurried  re- 
treat, the  girl  might  be  frightened,  and  would 
unquestionably  be  annoyed.  It  was  impossible 
to  creep  away  unseen.  He  was  well  below  the 
crest  of  the  slope  crowned  by  the  trees,  and 
the  nymph  now  disporting  in  the  lake  could 
hardly  fail  to  discover  him,  no  matter  how 
deftly  he  crouched  and  twisted. 

At  this  crisis,  the  artistic  instinct  triumphed. 
He  became  aware  that  the  one  element  lacking 
hitherto,  the  element  that  lent  magic  to  the 
beauty  of  the  lake  and  its  vivid  environment  of 
color,  was  the  touch  of  life  brought  by  the 
swimmer.  He  caught  the  flash  of  her  limbs  as 
they  moved  rhythmically  through  the  dark, 
clear  water,  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  gods 
had  striven  to  be  kind  in  sending  this  naiad  to 
complete  a  perfect  setting.  With  stealthy  hands 
he  drew  forth  a  small  canvas.  Oil,  not  mild 
water  color,  was  the  fitting  medium  to  portray 
this  Eden.  Shrinking  back  under  cover  of  a 
leafy  brier,  he  began  a  third  sketch  in  which 
the  dominant  note  was  the  contrast  between 
the  living  woman  and  the  marble  Venus. 

For  fifteen  minutes  the  girl  disported  herself 
like  a  dolphin.  Evidently  she  was  a  practiced 
swimmer,  and  had  at  her  command  all  the  re- 
sources of  the  art.  At  last  she  climbed  out, 


14  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

and  stood  dripping  on  the  sun-laved  rock  beside 
the  statue.  Trenholme  had  foreseen  this  atti- 
tude— had,  in  fact,  painted  with  feverish  energy 
in  anticipation  of  it.  The  comparison  was  too 
striking  to  be  missed  by  an  artist.  Were  it  not 
for  the  tightly  clinging  garments,  the  pair  would 
have  provided  a  charming  representation  of 
Galatea  in  stone  and  Galatea  after  Pygmalion's 
frenzy  had  warmed  her  into  life. 

Trenholme  was  absolutely  deaf  now  to  any 
consideration  save  that  of  artistic  endeavor. 
With  a  swift  accuracy  that  was  nearly  marvel- 
ous he  put  on  the  canvas  the  sheen  of  faultless 
limbs  and  slender  neck.  He  even  secured  the 
spun-gold  glint  of  hair  tightly  coifed  under  a 
bathing  cap — a  species  of  head-dress  which  had 
puzzled  him  at  the  first  glance — and  there  was 
more  than  a  suggestion  of  a  veritable  portrait 
of  the  regular,  lively  and  delicately  beautiful 
features  which  belonged  to  a  type  differing  in 
every  essential  from  the  cold,  classic  loveliness 
of  the  statue,  yet  vastly  more  appealing  in  its 
sheer  femininity. 

Then  the  spell  was  broken.  The  girl  slipped 
on  her  shoes,  dressed  herself  in  a  few  seconds, 
and  was  hurrying  back  to  the  house,  almost 
before  Trenholme  dared  to  breathe  nor- 
mally. 

"Well,"  he  muttered,  watching  the  swaying 
of  the  green  skirt  as  its  owner  traversed  the 
park,  "this  is  something  like  an  adventure !  By 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  15 

Jove,  I've  been  lucky  this  morning!  I've  got 
my  picture  for  next  year's  Salon!" 

He  had  got  far  more,  if  only  he  were  gifted 
to  peer  into  the  future ;  but  that  is  a  privilege 
denied  to  men,  even  to  artists.  Soon,  when  he 
was  calmer,  and  the  embryo  sketch  had  assumed 
its  requisite  color  notes  for  subsequent  elabora- 
tion, he  smiled  a  trifle  dubiously. 

"If  that  girl's  temperament  is  as  attractive 
as  her  looks  I'd  throw  over  the  Salon  for  the 
sake  of  meeting  her,"  he  mused.  "But  that's 
frankly  impossible,  I  suppose.  At  the  best,  she 
would  not  forgive  me  if  she  knew  I  had  watched 
her  in  this  thievish  way.  I  could  never  explain 
it,  never!  She  wouldn't  even  listen.  Well,  it's 
better  to  have  dreamed  and  lost  than  never  to 
have  dreamed  at  all." 

And  yet  he  dreamed.  His  eyes  followed  the 
fair  unknown  while  she  entered  the  garden 
through  a  gateway  of  dense  yews,  and  sped 
lightly  up  the  steps  of  a  terrace  adorned  with 
other  statues  in  marble  and  bronze.  No  door- 
way broke  the  pleasing  uniformity  of  the  south 
front,  but  she  disappeared  through  an  open  win- 
dow, swinging  herself  lightly  over  the  low  sill. 
He  went  with  her  in  imagination.  Now  she 
was  crossing  a  pretty  drawing-room,  now  run- 
ning upstairs  to  her  room,  now  dressing,  pos- 
sibly in  white  muslin,  which,  if  Trenholme  had 
the  choosing  of  it,  would  be  powdered  with  tiny 
fleurs  de  lys,  now  arranging  her  hair  with  keen 


16  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

eye  for  effect,  and  now  tripping  down  again  in 
obedience  to  a  gong  summoning  the  household 
to  breakfast. 

He  sighed. 

"If  I  had  the  luck  of  a  decent  French  poodle, 
this  plutocrat  Fenley  would  eke  have  invited 
me  to  lunch,"  he  grumbled. 

Then  his  eyes  sought  the  sketch,  and  he  for- 
got the  girl  in  her  counterfeit.  By  Jove,  this 
would  be  a  picture!  "The  Water  Nymphs." 
But  he  must  change  the  composition  a  little — 
losing  none  of  its  character;  only  altering  its 
accessories  to  such  an  extent  that  none  would 
recognize  the  exact  setting. 

"Luck!"  he  chortled,  with  mercurial  rise  of 
spirits.  "I'm  the  luckiest  dog  in  England  to- 
day. Happy  chance  has  beaten  all  the  tricks 
of  the  studio.  0  ye  goddesses,  inspire  me  to 
heights  worthy  of  you!" 

His  visions  were  rudely  dispelled  by  a  gun- 
shot, sharp,  insistent,  a  tocsin  of  death  in  t^at 
sylvan  solitude.  A  host  of  rooks  arose  from 
some  tall  elms  near  the  house ;  a  couple  of  cock 
pheasants  flew  with  startled  chuckling  out  of 
the  wood  on  the  right ;  the  white  tails  of  rabbits 
previously  unseen  revealed  their  owners '  where- 
abouts as  they  scampered  to  cover.  But  Tr en- 
holme  was  sportsman  enough  to  realize  that  the 
weapon  fired  was  a  rifle ;  no  toy,  but  of  high  ve- 
locity, and  he  wondered  how  any  one  dared  risk 
its  dangerous  use  in  such  a  locality.  He  fixed 


THE  WATER  NYMPHS  17 

the  sound  definitely  as  coming  from  the  wood  to 
the  right — the  cover  quitted  so  hurriedly  by  the 
pheasants — and  instinctively  his  glance  turned 
to  the  house,  in  the  half  formed  thought  that 
some  one  there  might  hear  the  shot,  and  look 
out. 

The  ground  floor  window  by  which  the  girl 
had  entered  still  remained  open,  but  now  an- 
other window,  the  most  easterly  one  on  the  first 
floor,  had  been  raised  slightly.  The  light  was 
peculiarly  strong  and  the  air  so  clear  that  even 
at  the  distance  he  fancied  he  could  distinguish 
some  one  gesticulating,  or  so  it  seemed,  behind 
the  glass.  This  went  on  for  a  minute  or  more. 
Then  the  window  was  closed.  At  the  same  time 
he  noticed  a  sparkling  of  glass  and  brasswork 
behind  the  clipped  yew  hedge  which  extended 
beyond  the  east  wing.  After  some  puzzling, 
he  made  out  that  a  motor  car  was  waiting 
there. 

That  was  all.  The  clamor  of  the  rooks  soon 
subsided.  A  couple  of  rabbits  skipped  from  the 
bushes  to  resume  an  interrupted  meal  on  tender 
grass  shoots.  A  robin  trilled  a  roundelay  from 
some  neighboring  branch.  Trenholme  looked 
at  his  watch.  Half  past  nine!  Why,  he  must 
have  been  mooning  there  a  good  half  hour ! 

He  gathered  his  traps,  and  as  the  result  of 
seeing  the  automobile,  which  had  not  moved  yet, 
determined  to  forego  his  earlier  project  of  walk- 
ing out  of  the  park  by  the  Easton  gate. 


18  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

He  had  just  emerged  from  the  trees  when  a 
gruff  voice  hailed  him. 

"  Hi ! ' '  it  cried.  ' '  Who  're  you,  an '  what  are 
you  doin'  here?" 

A  man,  carrying  a  shotgun  and  accompanied 
by  a  dog,  strode  up  with  determined  air. 

Trenholme  explained  civilly,  since  the  keeper 
was  clearly  within  his  rights.  Moreover,  the 
stranger  was  so  patently  a  gentleman  that  Vel- 
veteens adopted  a  less  imperative  tone. 

"Did  you  hear  a  shot  fired  somewhere?"  he 
asked. 

1 '  Yes.  Among  those  trees. ' '  And  Trenholme 
pointed.  "It  was  a  rifle,  too,"  he  added,  with 
an  eye  at  the  twelve-bore. 

"So  7  thought,"  agreed  the  keeper. 

"Rather  risky,  isn't  it,  firing  bullets  in  a 
place  like  this  ? ' ' 

"I  just  want  to  find  out  who  the  ijiot  is  that 
did  it.  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  must  be  off."  And 
man  and  dog  hurried  away. 

And  Trenholme,  not  knowing  that  death  had 
answered  the  shot,  took  his  own  departure,  sing- 
ing as  he  walked,  his  thoughts  altogether  on  life, 
and  more  especially  on  life  as  revealed  by  the 
limbs  of  a  girl  gleaming  in  the  dark  waters  of 
a  pool. 


CHAPTER  H 
"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?" 

TRENHOLME 's  baritone  was  strong  and  tune- 
ful— for  the  Muses,  if  kind,  are  often  lavish  of 
their  gifts — so  the  final  refrain  of  an  impas- 
sioned love  song  traveled  far  that  placid  morn- 
ing. Thus,  when  he  reached  the  iron  gates,  he 
found  the  Eoxton  policeman  standing  there, 
grinning. 

"Hello!"  said  the  artist  cheerily.  Of  course 
he  knew  the  policeman.  In  a  week  he  would 
have  known  every  man  and  dog  in  the  village 
by  name. 

"Good  morning  sir,"  said  the  Law,  which 
was  nibbling  its  chin  strap  and  had  both  thumbs 
stuck  in  its  belt.  * '  That 's  a  fine  thing  you  was 
singin'.  May  I  arsk  wot  it  was?  I  do  a  bit  in 
that  linemeself." 

"It's  the  cantabile  from  Saint-Saens'  Sam- 
son et  Dalila,"  replied  Trenholme.  "Mon  co3ur 
s  'ouvre  a  ta  voix ! ' ' 

"Is  it  now?    An'  wot  may  that  be,  sir?" 

The  policeman's  humor  was  infectious. 
Trenholme  laughed,  too.  Realizing  that  the 
words  and  accent  of  Paris  had  no  great  vogue 
in  Hertfordshire,  he  explained,  and  added  that 

19 


20  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

he  possessed  a  copy  of  the  song,  which  was  at 
the  service  of  the  force.  The  man  thanked  him 
warmly,  and  promised  to  call  at  the  inn  during 
the  afternoon. 

"By  the  way,  sir,"  he  added,  when  Trenholme 
had  passed  through  the  wicket,  *  *  did  you  hear  a 
shot  fired  while  you  was  in  the  park?" 

"Yes." 

"Jer  see  anybody?" 

"A  keeper,  who  seemed  rather  annoyed  about 
the  shooting.  Some  one  had  fired  a  rifle." 

"It  sounded  like  that  to  me,  sir,  and  it's  an 
unusual  thing  at  this  time  of  the  year. ' ' 

"A  heavy-caliber  rifle  must  sound  unusual  at 
any  time  of  the  year  in  an  enclosed  estate  near 
London,"  commented  Trenholme. 

"My  idee  exactly,"  said  the  policeman.  "I 
think  I'll  go  that  way.  I  may  meet  Bates. ' ' 

*  *  If  Bates  is  a  bandy-legged  person  with  sus- 
picious eyes,  a  red  tie,  many  pockets,  brown 
leggings,  and  a  yellow  dog,  you'll  find  him 
searching  the  wood  beyond  the  lake,  which  is 
the  direction  the  shot  came  from." 

The  policeman  laughed. 

"That's  Bates,  to  a  tick,"  he  said.  "If  he 
was  'wanted,'  your  description  would  do  for 
the  Police  Gazette." 

They  parted.  Since  Trenholme 's  subsequent 
history  is  bound  up  more  closely  with  the  po- 
liceman's movements  during  the  next  hour  than 
with  his  own  unhindered  return  to  the  White 


"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?"     21 

Horse  Inn,  it  is  well  to  trace  the  exact  course 
of  events  as  they  presented  themselves  to  the 
ken  of  a  music-loving  member  of  the  Hertford- 
shire constabulary. 

Police  Constable  Farrow  did  not  hurry.  Why 
should  he?  A  gunshot  in  a  gentleman's  park  at 
half  past  nine  on  a  June  morning  might  be,  as 
he  had  put  it,  " unusual,"  but  it  was  obviously 
a  matter  capable  of  the  simplest  explanation. 
Such  a  sound  heard  at  midnight  would  be 
sinister,  ominous,  replete  with  those  elements 
of  mystery  and  dread  which  cause  even  a  po- 
liceman's heart  to  beat  faster  than  the  regula- 
tion pace.  Under  the  conditions,  when  he  met 
Bates,  he  would  probably  be  told  that  Jenkins, 
underkeeper  and  Territorial  lance  corporal, 
had  resolved  to  end  the  vicious  career  of  a 
hoodie  crow,  and  had  not  scrupled  to  reach  the 
wily  robber  with  a  bullet. 

So  Police  Constable  Farrow  took  fifteen  min- 
utes to  cover  the  ground  which  Trenholme's 
longer  stride  had  traversed  in  ten.  Allow  an- 
other fifteen  for  the  artist's  packing  of  his 
sketching  materials,  his  conversation  with 
gamekeeper  and  policeman,  and  the  leisurely 
progress  of  the  latter  through  the  wood,  and 
it  will  be  found  that  Farrow  reached  the  long 
straight  avenue  leading  from  the  lodge  at 
Easton  to  the  main  entrance  of  the  house  about 
forty  minutes  after  the  firing  of  the  shot. 

He  halted  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the 


22  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

well-kept  drive,  and  looked  at  the  waiting  motor 
car.  The  chauffeur  was  not  visible.  He  had 
seen  neither  Bates  nor  Jenkins.  His  passing 
among  the  trees  had  not  disturbed  even  a  pheas- 
ant, though  the  estate  was  alive  with  game.  The 
door  of  The  Towers  was  open,  but  no  stately 
manservant  was  stationed  there.  A  yellow  dog 
sat  in  the  sunshine.  Farrow  and  the  dog  ex- 
changed long-range  glances :  the  policeman  con- 
sulted his  watch,  bit  his  chin  strap,  and  dug 
his  thumbs  into  his  belt. 

"Mr.  Fenley  is  late  today, "  he  said  to  him- 
self. "He  catches  the  nine  forty-five.  As  a 
rule,  he's  as  reliable  as  Greenwich.  I'll  wait 
here  till  he  passes,  an'  then  call  round  an'  see 
Smith." 

Now,  Smith  was  the  head  gardener ;  evidently 
Police  Constable  Farrow  was  not  only  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  various  inmates  of  the  man- 
sion, but  could  have  prepared  a  list  of  the  out- 
door employees  as  well.  He  stood  there,  calm 
and  impassive  as  Fate,  and,  without  knowing  it, 
represented  Fate  in  her  most  inexorable  mood ; 
for  had  he  betaken  himself  elsewhere,  the 
shrewdest  brains  of  Scotland  Yard  might  have 
been  defeated  by  the  enigma  they  were  asked 
to  solve  before  Mortimer  Fenley 's  murderer 
was  discovered. 

Indeed,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  if 
chance  had  not  brought  the  village  constable  to 
that  identical  spot,  and  at  that  very  hour,  the 


"WHO  HATE  DONE  THIS  THING?''     23 

precise  method  of  the  crime  might  never  have 
been  revealed.  Moreover,  Farrow  himself  may 
climb  slowly  to  an  inspectorship,  and  pass  into 
the  dignified  ease  of  a  pension,  without  being 
aware  of  the  part  he  played  in  a  tragedy  that 
morning.  Of  course,  in  his  own  estimation,  he 
filled  a  highly  important  role  as  soon  as  the 
hue  and  cry  began,  but  a  great  deal  of  water 
would  flow  under  London  Bridge  before  the  true 
effect  of  his  walk  through  the  wood  and  emer- 
gence into  sight  in  the  avenue  began  to  dawn  on 
other  minds. 

His  appearance  there  was  a  vital  fact.  It 
changed  the  trend  of  circumstances  much  as  the 
path  of  a  comet  is  deflected  by  encountering  a 
heavy  planet.  Presumably,  neither  comet  nor 
planet  is  aware  of  the  disturbance.  That  deduc- 
tion is  left  to  the  brooding  eye  of  science. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Police  Constable  Farrow's 
serenity  was  not  disturbed  until  a  doctor's  mo- 
tor car  panted  along  the  avenue  from  Easton 
and  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  in  front  of  him.  The 
doctor,  frowning  with  anxiety,  looked  out,  and 
recognition  was  mutual. 

"Have  you  got  the  man?"  he  asked,  and  the 
words  were  jerked  out  rather  than  spoken. 

""What  man,  sir?"  inquired  Farrows,  salut- 
ing. 

"The  man  who  shot  Mr.  Fenley." 

"The  man  who  shot  Mr.  Fenley!"  Farrow 
could  only  repeat  each  word  in  a  crescendo  of 


24  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

amazement.  Being  a  singer,  he  understood 
the  use  of  a  crescendo,  and  gave  full  scope 
to  it. 

''Good  Heavens!"  cried  thr  doctor. 
" Haven't  you  been  told?  Why  are  you  here? 
Mr.  Fenley  was  shot  dead  on  his  own  doorstep 
nearly  an  hour  ago.  At  least  that  is  the  mes- 
sage telephoned  by  his  son.  Unfortunately  I 
was  out.  Eight  ahead,  Tom!" 

The  chauffeur  threw  in  the  clutch,  and  the 
car  darted  on  again.  Farrow  followed,  a  quite 
alert  and  horrified  policeman  now.  But  it  was 
not  ordained  that  he  should  enter  the  house. 
He  was  distant  yet  a  hundred  yards,  or  more, 
when  three  men  came  through  the  doorway. 
They  were  Bates,  the  keeper,  Tomlinson,  the 
butler,  and  Mr.  Hilton  Fenley,  elder  son  of  the 
man  now  reported  dead.  All  were  bareheaded. 
The  arrival  of  the  doctor,  at  the  instant  alight- 
ing from  his  car,  prevented  them  from  noticing 
Farrow's  rapid  approach.  When  Hilton  Fen- 
ley saw  the  doctor  he  threw  up  his  hands  with 
the  gesture  of  one  who  has  plumbed  the  depths 
of  misery.  Farrow  could,  and  did,  fit  in  the 
accompanying  words  quite  accurately. 

" Nothing  can  be  done,  Stern!  My  father  is 
dead!" 

The  two  clasped  each  other's  hand,  and  Hil- 
ton Fenley  staggered  slightly.  He  was  over- 
come with  emotion.  The  shock  of  a  terrible 
crime  had  taxed  his  self-control  to  its  tter- 


"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?"     25 

most  bounds.  He  placed  a  hand  over  his  eyes 
and  said  brokenly  to  the  butler : 

"You  take  Dr.  Stern  inside,  Tomlinson.  I'll 
join  you  in  a  few  minutes.  I  must  have  a 
breath  of  air,  or  I'll  choke!" 

Doctor  and  butler  hurried  into  the  house; 
then,  but  not  until  then,  Hilton  Fenley  and 
the  keeper  became  aware  of  Farrow,  now  with- 
in a  few  yards.  At  sight  of  him,  Fenley  seemed 
to  recover  his  faculties ;  the  mere  possibility  of 
taking  some  definite  action  brought  a  tinge  of 
color  to  a  pallid  and  somewhat  sallow  face. 

* '  Ah !  Here  is  the  constable, ' '  he  cried.  ' '  Go 
with  him,  Bates,  and  have  that  artist  fellow 
arrested!" 

" Meaning  Mr.  Trenholme,  sir!"  inquired 
the  policeman,  startled  anew  by  this  unexpected 
reference  to  the  man  he  had  parted  from  so 
recently. 

"I  don't  know  his  name;  but  Bates  met  him 
in  the  park,  near  the  lake,  just  after  the  shot 
was  fired  that  killed  my  father." 

"But  I  met  him,  too,  sir.  He  didn't  fire  any 
shot.  He  hadn't  a  gun.  In  fact,  he  spoke  about 
the  shootin',  and  was  surprised  at  it." 

"Look  here,  Farrow,  I  am  incapable  of  think- 
ing clearly ;  so  you  must  act  for  the  best.  Some 
one  fired  that  bullet.  It  nearly  tore  my  father 
to  pieces.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it.  It 
was  ghastly — oh,  ghastly!  The  murderer  must 
be  found.  Why  are  you  losing  time?  Jump 


26  MORTIMER  FENLEY. 

into  the  car,  and  Brodie  will  take  yon  anywhere 
you  want  to  go.  The  roads,  the  railway  sta- 
tions, must  be  scoured,  searched.  Oh,  do  some- 
thing, or  I  shall  go  mad ! ' ' 

Hilton  Fenley  did,  indeed,  wear  the  semblance 
of  a  man  distraught.  Horror  stared  from  his 
deep-set  eyes  and  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  His  father  had  been  struck  dead  within 
a  few  seconds  after  they  had  separated  in  the 
entrance  hall,  both  having  quitted  the  break- 
fast room  together,  and  the  awful  discovery 
which  followed  the  cry  of  an  alarmed  servant 
had  almost  shaken  the  son's  reason, 

Farrow  was  hardly  fitted  to  deal  with  a  crisis 
of  such  magnitude,  but  he  acted  promptly  and 
with  fixed  purpose — qualities  which  form  the 
greater  part  of  generalship. 

"Bates,"  he  said,  turning  a  determined  eye 
on  the  keeper,  "  where  was  you  when  you  heard 
the  shot?" 

"In  the  kennels,  back  of  the  lodge,"  came  the 
instant  answer. 

"And  you  kem  this  way  at  once?" 

"Straight.    Didn't  lose  'arf  a  minute." 

"  So  no  one  could  have  left  by  the  Easton  gate 
without  meeting  you?" 

"That's  right." 

"And  you  found  Mr.  Trenholme — where?" 

"Comin'  away  from  the  cedars,  above  the 
lake." 

"What  did  he  say?" 


"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?"     27 

"Tole  me  about  the  shot,  an'  pointed  out 
the  Quarry  Wood  as  the  place  it  kem  from." 

"Was  he  upset  at  all  in  his  manner?" 

' '  Not  a  bit.    Spoke  quite  nateral-like. ' ' 

"Well,  between  the  three  of  us,  you  an'  m«; 
an*  Mr.  Trenholme,  we  account  for  both  gateu 
an'  the  best  part  of  two  miles  of  park.  Where 
is  Jenkins?" 

"I  left  him  at  the  kennels." 

"Ah!" 

The  policeman  was  momentarily  nonplussed. 
He  had  formed  a  theory  in  which  Jenkins,  that 
young  Territorial  spark,  figured  either  as  a  fool 
or  a  criminal. 

"What's  the  use  of  holding  a  sort  of  inquiry 
on  the  doorstep?"  broke  in  Hilton  Fenley 
shrilly.  His  utterance  was  nearly  hysterical. 
Farrow's  judicial  calm  appeared  to  stir  him  to 
frenzy.  He  clamored  for  action,  for  zealous 
scouting,  and  this  orderly  investigation  by  mere 
words  was  absolutely  maddening. 

"I'm  not  wastin'  time,  sir,"  said  Farrow  re- 
spectfully. "It's  as  certain  as  anything  can  be 
that  the  murderer,  if  murder  has  been  done,  has 
not  got  away  by  either  of  the  gates." 

"If  murder  has  been  done!"  cried  Fenley. 
"What  do  you  mean?  Go  and  look  at  my  poor 
father's  corpse " 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Fenley  is  dead,  sir,  an'  sorry 
I  am  to  hear  of  it ;  but  the  affair  may  turn  out 
to  be  an  accident. " 


28  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

" Accident!  Farrow,  you're  talking  like  an 
idiot.  A  man  is  shot  dead  at  his  own  front  door, 
in  a  honse  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  big  estate, 
and  you  tell  me  it's  an  accident!" 

"No,  sir.  I  on'y  mentioned  that  on  the  off 
chance.  Queer  things  do  happen,  an'  one 
shouldn't  lose  sight  of  that  fact  just  because 
it's  unusual.  Now,  sir,  with  your  permission, 
I  want  Brodie,  an'  Smith,  an'  all  the  men  serv- 
ants you  can  spare  for  the  next  half  hour." 

"Why?" 

"Brodie  can  motor  to  the  Inspector's  office, 
an'  tell  him  wot  he  knows,  stoppin'  on  the  way 
to  send  Jenkins  here.  Some  of  us  must  search 
the  woods  thoroughly,  while  others  watch  the 
open  park,  to  make  sure  no  one  escapes  with- 
out bein'  seen.  It's  my  firm  belief  that  the  man 
who  fired  that  rifle  is  still  hidin'  among  those 
trees.  He  may  be  sneakin'  off  now,  but  we'd 
see  him  if  we're  quick  in  reachin'  the  other  side. 
Will  you  do  as  I  ask,  sir!" 

Farrow  was  already  in  motion  when  Fenley's 
dazed  mind  recalled  something  the  policeman 
ought  to  know. 

"I've  telephoned  to  Scotland  Yard  half  an 
hour  ago,"  he  said. 

"That's  all  right,  sir.  The  main  thing  now 
is  to  search  every  inch  of  the  woods.  If  nothing 
else,  we  may  find  footprints." 

"And  make  plenty  of  new  ones." 

"Not  if  the  helpers  do  as  I  tell  'em,  sir." 


"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?"     29 

' '  I  can 't  argue.  I  'm  not  fit  for  it.  Still,  some 
instinct  warns  me  you  are  not  adopting  the  best 
course.  I  think  you  ought  to  go  in  the  car  and 
put  the  police  into  combined  action." 

"What  are  they  to  do,  sir?  The  murderer 
won't  carry  a  rifle  through  the  village,  or  along 
the  open  road.  I  fancy  we'll  come  across  the 
weapon  itself  in  the  wood.  Besides,  the  Inspec- 
tor will  do  all  that  is  necessary  when  Brodie 
sees  him.  Keelly,  sir,  I  know  I'm  right." 

"But  should  that  artist  be  questioned?" 

"Of  course  he  will,  sir.  He  won't  run  away. 
If  he  does,  we  '11  soon  nab  him.  He 's  been  stay- 
in'  at  the  White  Horse  Inn  the  last  two  days, 
an'  is  quite  a  nice-spoken  young  gentleman. 
Why  should  he  want  to  shoot  Mr.  Fenley?" 

"He  is  annoyed  with  my  father,  for  one 
thing." 

"Eh?    Wot,  sir?" 

Farrow,  hitherto  eager  to  be  off  on  the  hunt, 
stopped  as  if  he  heard  a  statement  of  real  im- 
portance. 

Hilton  Fenley  pressed  a  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"It  was  nothing  to  speak  of,"  he  muttered. 
"He  wrote  asking  permission  to  sketch  the 
house,  and  my  father  refused — just  why  I  don't 
know ;  some  business  matter  had  vexed  him  that 
day,  I  fancy,  and  he  dashed  off  the  refusal  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  But  a  man  does  not 
commit  a  terrible  crime  for  so  slight  a  cause. 
.  .  .  Oh,  if  only  my  head  would  cease  throb- 


30  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

bing !  .  .  .  Do  as  you  like.  Bates,  see  that 
every  assistance  is  given." 

Fenley  walked  a  few  paces  unsteadily.  Ob- 
viously he  was  incapable  of  lucid  thought,  and 
the  mere  effort  at  sustained  conversation  was 
a  torture.  He  turned  through  a  yew  arch  into 
the  Italian  garden,  and  threw  himself  wearily 
into  a  seat. 

"Poor  young  fellow!  He's  fair  off  his  nut," 
whispered  Bates. 

* '  What  can  one  expect  I ' '  said  Farrow.  ' '  But 
we  must  get  busy.  Where's  Brodie?  Do  go  an' 
find  him." 

Bates  jerked  a  thumb  toward  the  house. 

"He's  in  there,"  he  said.  "He  helped  to 
carry  in  the  Gov'nor.  Hasn't  left  him 
since." 

"He  must  come  at  once.  He  can't  do  any 
good  now,  an'  we've  lost  nearly  an  hour  as  it 
is." 

The  chauffeur  appeared,  red-eyed  and  white- 
faced.  But  he  understood  the  urgency  of  his 
mission,  and  soon  had  the  car  in  movement. 
Others  came — the  butler,  some  gardeners,  and 
men  engaged  in  stables  and  garage,  for  the  dead 
banker  maintained  a  large  establishment.  Far- 
row explained  his  plan.  They  would  beat  the 
woods  methodically,  and  the  searcher  who  noted 
anything  "unusual" — the  word  was  often  on 
the  policeman's  lips — was  not  to  touch  or  dis- 
turb the  object  or  sign  in  any  way,  but  its 


"WHO  HATE  DONE  THIS  THING?"     31 

whereabouts  should  be  marked  by  a  broken 
branch  stuck  in  the  ground.  Of  course,  if  a 
stranger  was  seen,  an  alarm  should  be  raised 
instantly. 

The  little  party  was  making  for  the  Quarry 
Wood,  when  Jenkins  arrived  on  a  bicycle.  The 
first  intimation  he  had  received  of  the  murder 
was  the  chauffeur's  message.  There  was  a  tele- 
phone between  house  and  lodge,  but  no  one  had 
thought  of  using  it. 

"Now,  Bates,"  said  Farrow,  when  the  squad 
of  men  had  spread  out  in  line,  "you  an'  me  will 
take  the  likeliest  line.  You  ought  to  know  every 
spot  in  the  covert  where  it's  possible  to  aim  a 
gun  at  any  one  stannin'  on  top  of  the  steps  at 
The  Towers.  There  can't  be  many  such  places. 
Is  there  even  one?  I  don't  suppose  the  bare- 
faced scoundrel  would  dare  come  out  into  the 
open  drive.  Brodie  said  Mr.  Fenley  was  shot 
through  the  right  side  while  facin'  the  car,  so 
he  bears  out  both  your  notion  an'  Mr.  Tren- 
holme's  that  the  bullet  kem  from  the  Quarry 
Wood.  What's  your  idea  about  it?  Have  you 
one,  or  are  you  just  as  much  in  the  dark  as  the 
rest  of  us?" 

Bates  was  sour-faced  with  perplexity.  The 
killing  of  his  employer  was  already  crystalliz- 
ing in  his  thoughts  into  an  irrevocable  thing, 
for  the  butler  had  lifted  aside  the  dead  man's 
coat  and  waistcoat,  and  this  had  shown  him  the 
ghastly  evidences  of  a  wound  which  must  have 


32  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

been  instantly  fatal.  Now,  a  shrewd  if  narrow 
intelligence  was  concentrated  on  the  one  tre- 
mendous question,  "Who  hath  done  this 
thing!"  He  looked  so  worried  that  the  yellow 
dog,  watching  him,  and  quick  to  interpret  his 
moods,  slouched  warily  at  heel;  and  Farrow, 
though  agog  with  excitement,  saw  that  his  crony 
was  ill  at  ease  because  of  some  twinge  of  fear 
or  suspicion. 

"Speak  out,  Jim,"  he  urged,  dropping  his 
voice  to  a  confidential  pitch,  lest  one  of  the 
others  might  overhear.  "Gimme  the  straight 
tip,  if  you  can.  It  need  never  be  known  that 
it  kem  from  you." 

"I've  a  good  berth  here,"  muttered  the 
keeper,  with  seeming  irrelevance. 

"Tell  me  something  fresh,"  said  Farrow, 
quickening  with  grateful  memories  of  many  a 
pheasant  and  brace  of  rabbits  reposing  a  brief 
space  in  his  modest  larder. 

"So,  if  I  tell  you  things  in  confidence 
like " 

"I've  heard  'em  from  any  one  but  you." 

Bates  drew  a  deep  breath,  only  to  expel  it 
fiercely  between  puffed  lips. 

"It's  this  way,"  he  growled.  "Mr.  Kobert 
an'  the  ol'  man  didn't  hit  off,  an'  there  was 
a  deuce  of  a  row  between  'em  the  other  day, 
Saturday  it  was.  My  niece,  Mary,  was  a-dustin' 
the  banisters  when  the  two  kem  out  from  break- 
fast, an'  she  heerd  the  Gov'nor  say:  'That's 


"WHO  HATE  DONE  THIS  THING?"     33 

my  last  word  on  the  subjec*.  I  mean  to  be 
obeyed  this  time.' 

"  'But,  look  here,  pater/  said  Mr.  Robert — 
he  always  calls  his  father  pater,  ye  know — 'I 
reelly  can't  arrange  matters  in  that  offhand 
way.  You  must  give  me  time.'  'Not  another 
minute,'  said  Mr.  Fenley.  'Oh,  dash  it  all,' 
said  Mr.  Eobert,  'you're  enough  to  drive  a  fel- 
low crazy.  At  times  I  almost  forget  that  I'm 
your  son.  Some  fellows  would  be  tempted  to 
blow  their  brains  out,  an'  yours,  too.' 

"At  that,  Tomlinson  broke  in,  an'  grabbed 
Mr.  Eobert 's  arm,  an'  the  Gov'nor  went  off  in 
the  car  in  a  fine  ol'  temper.  Mr.  Eobert  left 
The  Towers  on  his  motor  bike  soon  afterward, 
an'  he  hasn't  been  back  since." 

Although  the  fount  of  information  tempora- 
rily ran  dry,  Farrow  felt  that  there  was  more 
to  come  if  its  secret  springs  were  tapped. 

"Did  Mary  drop  a  hint  as  to  what  the  row 
was  about?"  he  inquired. 

"She  guessed  it  had  something  to  do  with 
Miss  Sylvia." 

"Why  Miss  Sylvia?" 

"She  an'  Mr.  Eobert  are  pretty  good  friends, 
you  see." 

"I  see."  The  policeman  saw  little,  but  each 
scrap  of  news  might  fit  into  its  place  pres- 
ently. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  went  on.  They  were  near- 
ing  that  part  of  the  wood  where  care  must  be 


S4  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

exercised,  and  he  wanted  Bates  to  talk  while  in 
the  vein. 

"No,  not  by  a  long  way,"  burst  out  the 
keeper,  seemingly  unable  to  contain  any  longer 
the  deadly  knowledge  weighing  on  his  con- 
science. " Don't  you  try  an'  hold  me  to  it,  Far- 
row, or  I'll  swear  black  an'  blue  I  never  said  it; 
but  I  knew  the  ring  of  the  shot  that  killed  my 
poor  ol'  guv 'nor.  It  was  fired  from  an  express 
rifle,  an'  there's  on'y  one  of  the  sort  in  Eoxton, 
so  far  as  I've  ever  seen.  An'  it  is,  or  ought  to 
be,  in  Mr.  Robert's  sittin'-room  at  this  very  min- 
ute. There!  Now  you've  got  it.  Do  as  you 
like.  Get  Tomlinson  to  talk,  or  anybody  else, 
but  keep  me  out  of  it — d'ye  hear?" 

"I  hear,"  said  Farrow,  thrilling  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  when  some  dandy  detective  ar- 
rived from  the  ''Yard,"  he  would  receive  an 
eye-opener  from  a  certain  humble  member  of 
the  Hertfordshire  constabulary.  Not  that  he 
quite  brought  himself  to  believe  Eobert  Fenley 
his  father's  murderer.  That  was  going  rather 
far.  That  would,  indeed,  be  a  monstrous  as- 
sumption as  matters  stood.  But  as  clues  the 
quarrel  and  the  rifle  were  excellent,  and  Scot- 
land Yard  must  recognize  them  in  that  light. 

Certainly,  this  was  an  unusual  case ;  most  un- 
usual. He  was  well  aware  of  the  reputation  at- 
tached to  Eobert  Fenley,  the  banker's  younger 
son,  who  differed  from  his  brother  in  every  es- 
sential. Hilton  was  steady-going,  business-like, 


"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?"     35 

his  father's  secretary  and  right  hand  in  affairs, 
both  in  the  bank  and  in  matters  affecting  the 
estate.  Robert,  almost  unmanageable  as  a 
youth,  had  grown  into  an  exceedingly  rapid 
young  man  about  town.  But  Roxton  folk  feared 
Hilton  and  liked  Robert;  and  local  gossip  had 
deplored  Robert's  wildness,  which  might  erect 
an  insurmountable  barrier  against  an  obviously 
suitable  match  between  him  and  Mr.  Mortimer 
Fenley's  ward,  the  rich  and  beautiful  Sylvia 
Manning. 

These  things  were  vivid  in  the  policeman's 
mind,  and  he  was  wondering  how  the  puzzle 
would  explain  itself  in  the  long  run,  when  an 
exclamation  from  Bates  brought  his  vagrom 
speculations  sharply  back  to  the  problem  of  the 
moment. 

The  keeper,  of  course,  as  Farrow  had  said, 
was  making  straight  for  the  one  place  in  the 
Quarry  Wood  which  commanded  a  clear  view 
of  the  entrance  to  the  mansion.  The  two  men 
were  skirting  the  disused  quarry,  now  a  rabbit 
warren,  which  gave  the  locality  its  name;  they 
followed  the  rising  edge  of  the  excavation, 
treading  on  a  broad  strip  of  turf,  purposely 
freed  of  encroaching  briers  lest  any  wandering 
stranger  might  plunge  headlong  into  the  pit 
Near  the  highest  part  of  the  rock  wall  there  was 
a  slight  depression  in  the  ground;  and  here, 
except  during  the  height  of  a  phenomenally  dry 
Summer,  the  surface  was  always  moist. 


36  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Bates,  who  was  leading,  had  halted  suddenly. 
He  pointed  to  three  well  marked  footprints. 

" Who's  been  here,  an'  not  so  long  ago, 
neither?"  he  said,  darting  ferret  eyes  now  at 
the  telltale  marks  and  now  into  the  quarry  be- 
neath or  through  the  solemn  aisle  of  trees. 

11  Stick  in  some  twigs,  an'  let's  hurry  on," 
said  Farrow.  "Footprints  are  first  rate,  but 
they'll  keep  for  an  hour  or  two." 

Thirty  yards  away,  and  somewhat  to  the 
right,  a  hump  of  rock  formed  the  Mont  Blanc 
of  that  tiny  Alp.  From  its  summit,  and  from 
no  other  part  of  the  wood,  they  could  see  the 
east  front  of  The  Towers.  In  fact,  while 
perched  there,  having  climbed  its  shoulder  with 
great  care  lest  certain  definite  tokens  of  a  re- 
cent intruder  should  be  obliterated,  they  dis- 
covered a  dusty  motor  car  ranged  between  the 
doctor's  runabout  and  the  Fenley  limousine, 
which  had  returned. 

The  doctor  and  Miss  Sylvia  Manning  were 
standing  on  the  broad  mosaic  which  adorned 
the  landing  above  the  steps,  standing  exactly 
where  Mortimer  Fenley  had  stood  when  he  was 
stricken  to  death.  With  them  were  two  strang- 
ers: one  tall,  burly  and  official-looking;  the 
other  a  shrunken  little  man,  whose  straw  hat, 
short  jacket,  and  clean-shaven  face  conveyed, 
at  the  distance,  a  curiously  juvenile  aspect. 

Halfway  down  the  steps  were  Hilton  Fenley 
and  Brodie,  and  all  were  gazing  fixedly  at  that 


"WHO  HATH  DONE  THIS  THING?"     37 

part  of  the  wood  where  the  keeper  and  the  po- 
liceman had  popped  into  view. 

"Hello!"  said  Bates.  "Who  is  that  little 
lot?" 

Clearly,  he  meant  the  big  man  and  his  diminu- 
tive companion.  Farrow  coughed  importantly. 

"That's  Scotland  Yard,"  he  said. 

"Who?" 

"Detectives  from  the  Yard.  Mr.  Hilton  tele- 
phoned for  'em.  An'  wot's  more,  they're  sig- 
nalin'  to  us." 

"They  want  us  to  go  back,"  said  Bates. 

"Mebbe." 

"There  can't  be  any  doubt  about  it."  And, 
indeed,  only  a  blind  man  could  have  been  skep- 
tical as  to  the  wishes  of  the  group  near  the  door. 

"I'm  goin'  through  this  wood  first,"  an- 
nounced Farrow  firmly.  "Mind  how  you  get 
down.  Them  marks  may  be  useful.  I'm  almost 
sure  the  scoundrel  fired  from  this  very  spot." 

"Looks  like  it,"  agreed  Bates,  and  they  de- 
scended. 

Five  minutes  later  they  were  in  the  open 
park,  where  their  assistant  scouts  awaited  them. 
None  of  the  others  had  found  any  indication  of 
a  stranger's  presence,  and  Farrow  led  them  to 
the  house  in  Indian  file,  by  a  path. 

"Scotland  Yard  is  on  the  job,"  he  announced. 
"Now  we'll  be  told  just  wot  we  reelly  ought  to 
have  done!" 

He  did  not  even  exchange  a  furtive  glance 


38  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

with  Bates,  but,  for  the  life  of  him  he  could 
not  restrain  a  note  of  triumph  from  creeping 
into  his  voice.  He  noticed,  too,  that  Tomlin- 
son,  the  butler,  not  only  looked  white  and 
shaken,  which  was  natural  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  had  the  haggard  aspect  of  a  stout 
man  who  may  soon  become  thin  by  stress  of 
fearsome  imaginings. 

Farrow  did  not  put  it  that  way. 

" Bates  is  right,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Tom- 
linson  has  something  on  his  chest.  By  jingo, 
this  affair  is  a  one-er  an'  no  mistake!" 

At  any  rate,  local  talent  had  no  intention  of 
kowtowing  too  deeply  before  the  majesty  of  the 
"Yard,"  for  the  Chief  of  the  Criminal  Investi- 
gation Department  himself  could  have  achieved 
no  more  in  the  time  than  Police  Constable  Far- 
row. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  HOUNDS 

SUPERINTENDENT  James  Leander  Winter, 
Chief  of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Department 
at  Scotland  Yard,  had  just  opened  the  morn- 
ing's letters,  and  was  virtuously  resisting  the 
placid  charms  of  an  open  box  of  cigars,  when 
the  telephone  bell  rang.  The  speaker  was  the 
Assistant  Commissioner. 

"Leave  everything  else,  and  motor  to  Rox- 
ton,"  said  the  calm  voice  of  authority.  "Mr. 
Mortimer  Fenley,  a  private  banker  in  the  City, 
was  shot  dead  about  nine  thirty  at  his  own  front 
door.  His  place  is  The  Towers,  which  stands 
in  a  park  between  the  villages  of  Roxton  and 
Easton,  in  Hertfordshire.  His  son,  who  has 
just  telephoned  here,  believes  that  a  rifle  was 
fired  from  a  neighboring  wood,  but  several  min- 
utes elapsed  before  any  one  realized  that  the 
banker  was  shot,  the  first  impression  of  the  serv- 
ants who  ran  to  his  assistance  when  he  stag- 
gered and  fell  being  that  he  was  suffering  from 
apoplexy.  By  the  time  the  cause  of  death  was 
discovered  the  murderer  could  have  escaped, 
so  no  immediate  search  was  organized.  Mr. 
Hilton  Fenley,  a  son,  who  spoke  with  difficulty, 


40  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

explained  that  he  thought  it  best  to  'phone  here 
after  summoning  a  doctor.  The  dead  man  is 
of  some  importance  in  the  City,  so  I  want  you 
to  take  personal  charge  of  the  inquiry. ' ' 

The  voice  ceased.  Mr.  Winter,  while  listen- 
ing, had  glanced  at  a  clock. 

"Nine  thirty  this  morning,  sir?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes.  The  son  lost  no  time.  The  affair 
happened  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago." 

"I'll  start  in  five  minutes." 

"Good.    By  the  way,  who  will  go  with  you!" 

"Mr.  Furneaux." 

"Excellent.  I  leave  matters  in  your  hands, 
Superintendent.  Let  me  hear  the  facts  if  you 
return  to  town  before  six." 

Evidently  the  Eoxton  murder  was  one  of  the 
year's  big  events.  It  loomed  large  already  in 
the  official  mind.  Winter  called  up  various  de- 
partments in  quick  succession,  gave  a  series  of 
orders,  sorted  his  letters  hastily,  thrusting  some 
into  a  drawer  and  others  into  a  basket  on  the 
table,  and  was  lighting  a  cigar  when  the  door 
opened  and  his  trusted  aide,  Detective  Inspector 
Furneaux,  entered. 

"  Ha ! "  cackled  the  newcomer ;  for  Winter  had 
confided  to  him,  only  the  day  before,  certain 
reasons  why  the  habit  of  smoking  to  excess  was 
injurious,  and  his  (Winter's)  resolve  to  cut 
down  the  day's  cigars  to  three,  one  after  each 
principal  meal. 

"Circumstances  alter  cases,"  said  the  Super- 


THE  HOUNDS  41 

intendent  blandly,  scrutinizing  the  Havana  to 
make  sure  that  the  outer  leaf  was  burning 
evenly.  "You  and  I  are  off  for  a  jaunt  in  the 
country,  Charles,  and  the  sternest  disciplinarian 
unbends  during  holiday  time." 

"Scotland  Yard,  as  well  as  the  other  place, 
is  paved  with  good  intentions,"  said  Fur- 
neaux. 

Winter  stooped,  and  took  a  couple  of  auto- 
matic pistols  from  a  drawer  in  the  desk  at  which 
he  was  seated. 

"Put  one  of  those  in  your  pocket,"  he  said. 

Again  did  his  colleague  smile  derisively. 

"So  it  is  only  a  'bus  driver's  holiday?"  he 
cried. 

' '  One  never  knows.  Some  prominent  banker, 
name  of  Fenley,  has  been  shot.  There  may  be 
more  shooting." 

' '  Fenley  ?    Not  Mortimer  Fenley  ? » ' 

* '  Yes.    Do  you  know  him  f ' ' 

1 '  Better  than  I  know  you ;  because  you  often 
puzzle  me,  whereas  he  struck  me  as  a  respect- 
able swindler.  Don't  you  remember  those  bonds 
which  disappeared  so  mysteriously  two  months 
ago  from  the  safe  of  the  Mortgage  and  Dis- 
count Bank,  and  were  all  sold  in  Paris  before 
the  loss  was  discovered?" 

"By  Jove!    Is  that  the  Fenley?" 

"None  other.  Of  course,  you  were  hob-nob- 
bing with  royalty  at  the  time,  so  such  a  trifle 
as  the  theft  of  ten  thousand  pounds'  worth  of 


42  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

negotiable  securities  didn't  trouble  you  a  bit. 
I  see  you're  wearing  the  pin  today." 

"So  would  you  wear  it,  if  an  Emperor 
deigned  to  take  notice  of  such  a  shrimp. " 

"Shrimp  you  call  me!  Imagine  a  lobster 
sticking  rubies  and  diamonds  into  a  heliotrope 
tie!" 

Winter  winked  solemnly. 

"I  picked  up  some  wrinkles  in  color  blends 
at  the  Futurist  Exhibition,"  he  said.  "But 
here 's  Johnston  to  tell  us  the  car  is  ready.  ' ' 

The  oddly  assorted  pair  followed  the  con- 
stable in  uniform,  now  hurrying  ahead  to  ring 
for  the  elevator.  The  big,  bluff,  bullet-headed 
Superintendent  was  physically  well  fitted  for 
his  responsible  position,  though  he  combined 
with  the  official  demeanor  some  of  the  easy- 
going characteristics  of  a  country  squire;  but 
Charles  Francois  Furneaux  was  so  unlike  the 
detective  of  romance  and  the  stage  that  he  often 
found  it  difficult  to  persuade  strangers  that  he 
was  really  the  famous  detective  inspector  they 
had  heard  of  in  connection  with  many  a  cele- 
brated trial. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  one  were  told  that  he 
hailed  from  the  Comedie  Franchise,  the  legend 
would  be  accepted  without  demur.  He  had  the 
clean-shaven,  wrinkled  face  of  the  comedian; 
his  black  eyes  sparkled  with  an  active  intelli- 
gence; an  expressive  mouth  bespoke  clear  and 
fluent  speech;  his  quick,  alert  movements  were 


THE  HOUNDS  43 

those  of  the  mimetic  actor.  Winter  stood  six 
feet  in  height,  and  weighed  two  hundred  and  ten 
pounds;  Furneaux  was  six  inches  shorter  and 
eighty  pounds  lighter.  The  one  was  a  typical 
John  Bull,  the  other  a  Channel  Islander  of  pure 
French  descent,  and  never  did  more  curiously 
assorted  couple  follow  the  trail  of  a  criminaL 

Yet,  if  noteworthy  when  acting  apart,  they 
were  almost  infallible  in  combination.  More 
than  one  eminent  scoundrel  had  either  blown 
out  his  brains  or  given  himself  up  to  the  law 
when  he  knew  that  the  Big  'Un  and  Little  'Un 
of  the  Yard  were  hot  on  his  track.  Winter 
seldom  failed  to  arrive  at  the  only  sound  con- 
clusion from  ascertained  facts,  whereas  Fur- 
neaux  had  an  almost  uncanny  knowledge  of  the 
kinks  and  obliquities  of  the  criminal  mind.  In 
the  phraseology  of  logic,  Winter  applied  the  de- 
ductive method  and  Furneaux  the  inductive; 
when  both  fastened  on  to  the  same  "suspect" 
the  unlucky  wight  was  in  parlous  state. 

It  may  be  taken  for  granted,  therefore,  that 
the  Assistant  Commissioner  knew  what  he  was 
about  in  uttering  his  satisfaction  at  the  Super- 
intendent's choice  of  an  assistant.  Possibly 
he  had  the  earlier  bond  robbery  in  mind,  and 
expected  now  that  another  "mystery"  would 
be  solved.  Scotland  Yard  guards  many  secrets 
which  shirk  the  glare  of  publicity.  Some  may 
never  be  explained;  but  by  far  the  larger  pro- 
portion are  cleared  up  unexpectedly  by  inci- 


44  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

dents  which  may  occur  months  or  years  after- 
ward, and  whose  connection  with  the  original 
crime  is  indiscernible  until  some  chance  discov- 
ery lays  bare  the  hidden  clue. 

One  queer  feature  of  the  partnership  between 
the  two  was  their  habit  of  chaffing  and  bicker- 
ing at  each  other  during  the  early  stages  of  a 
joint  hunt.  They  were  like  hounds  giving 
tongue  joyously  when  laid  on  the  scent;  dan- 
gerous then,  they  became  mute  and  deadly  when 
the  quarry  was  in  sight.  In  private  life  they 
were  firm  friends ;  officially,  Furneaux  was  Win- 
ter's subordinate,  but  that  fact  neither  silenced 
the  Jersey  man's  sarcastic  tongue  nor  stopped 
Winter  from  roasting  his  assistant  unmerci- 
fully if  an  opportunity  offered. 

Their  chauffeur  took  the  line  through  the 
parks  to  the  Edgware  Road,  and  they  talked 
of  anything  save  "shop"  until  the  speed  limit 
was  off  and  the  car  was  responding  gayly  to  the 
accelerator.  Then  Winter  threw  away  the  last 
inch  of  a  good  cigar,  involuntarily  put  his  hand 
to  a  well-filled  case  for  its  successor,  sighed,  and 
dropped  his  hand  again. 

"Force  of  habit,"  he  said,  finding  Furneaux 's 
eye  on  him. 

"I  didn't  even  think  evil,"  was  the  reply. 

"I  really  mustn't  smoke  so  much,"  said  Win- 
ter plaintively. 

"Oh,  for  goodness'  sake  light  up  and  be 
happy.  If  you  sit  there  nursing  your  self-right- 


THE  HOUNDS  45 

eousness  you'll  be  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head 
before  we  pass  Stanmore.  Besides,  consider  me. 
I  like  the  smell  of  tobacco,  though  my  finer  nerv- 
ous system  will  not  endure  its  use." 

"Finer  fiddlesticks,"  said  Winter,  cutting  the 
end  off  a  fresh  Havana.  "Now  tell  me  about 
Fenley  and  the  ten  thousand.  What's  his  other 
name?  I  forget — Alexander,  is  it?" 

"No,  norXenophon.  Just  Mortimer.  He  ran 
a  private  bank  in  Bishop sgate  Street,  and  that, 
as  you  know,  generally  hides  a  company  pro- 
moter. Frankly,  I  was  bothered  by  Fenley  at 
first.  I  believe  he  lost  the  bonds  right  enough, 
for  he  gave  the  numbers,  and  was  horribly  upset 
when  it  was  found  they  had  been  sold  in  Paris. 
But,  to  my  idea,  he  either  stole  them  himself 
and  was  relieved  of  them  later  or  was  victimized 
by  one  of  his  sons. 

"The  only  other  person  who  could  have  taken 
them  was  the  cashier,  a  hoary-headed  old  boy 
who  resides  at  Epping,  and  has  not  changed  his 
method  of  living  since  he  first  wore  a  silk  hat 
and  caught  the  eight-forty  to  the  City  one  morn- 
ing fifty  years  ago.  I  followed  him  home  on  a 
Saturday  afternoon.  The  bookstall  clerk  at 
Liverpool  Street  handed  him  The  Amateur  Gar- 
dener, and  the  old  boy  read  it  in  the  train.  Five 
minutes  after  he  had  reached  his  house  he  was 
out  on  the  lawn  with  a  daisy  fork.  No;  the 
cashier  didn't  arrange  the  Paris  sale." 

"What  of  the  sons?" 


46  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"The  elder,  Hilton  Fenley,  is  a  neurotic,  like 
myself,  so  he  would  shine  with  equal  luster  as 
a  saint,  or  a  detective,  or  a  dyed-in-the-wool 
thief.  The  younger,  Robert,  ought  to  be  an  ex- 
plorer, or  a  steeplechase  jockey,  or  an  airman. 
In  reality,  he  is  a  first-rate  wastrel.  In  my  dis- 
tress I  harked  back  to  the  old  man,  to  whom  the 
loss  of  the  bonds  represented  something  con- 
siderably less  than  a  year's  expenditure.  He 
is  mixed  up  in  all  sorts  of  enterprises — rubber, 
tea,  picture  palaces,  breweries  and  automobile 
finance.  He  lent  fifty  thousand  pounds  on  five 
per  cent,  first  mortgage  bonds  to  one  firm  at 
Coventry,  and  half  that  amount  to  a  rival  show 
in  West  London.  So  he  has  the  stuff,  and 
plenty  of  it.  Yet " 

Winter  nodded. 

"I  know  the  sort  of  man.  Dealing  in  mil- 
lions today;  tomorrow  in  the  dock  at  the  Old 
Bailey." 

"The  point  is  that  Fenley  has  never  dealt  in 
millions,  and  has  kept  his  head  high  for  twenty 
years.  Just  twenty  years,  by  the  way.  Before 
that  he  was  unknown.  He  began  by  the  amalga- 
mation of  some  tea  plantations  in  Assam.  Fine 
word,  'amalgamation.'  It  means  money,  all  the 
time.  Can't  we  amalgamate  something,  or 
somebody!" 

"In  Fenley 's  case  it  led  to  assassination." 

"Perhaps.  I  have  a  feeling  in  my  bones  that 
if  I  knew  who  touched  the  proceeds  of  those 


TEE  HOUNDS  47 

bonds  I  might  understand  why  some  one  shot 
Fenley  this  morning. ' ' 

"I'll  soon  tell  you  a  trivial  thing  like  that," 
said  Winter,  affecting  a  close  interest  in  the 
landscape. 

"I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  you  did," 
said  Furneaux.  ' '  You  have  the  luck  of  a  Carne- 
gie. Look  at  the  way  you  bungled  that  affair 
of  Lady  Morris 's  diamonds,  until  you  happened 
to  see  her  maid  meeting  Gentleman  George  at 
the  White  City." 

Winter  smoked  complacently. 

"Smartest  thing  I  ever  did,"  he  chortled. 
"Fixed  on  the  thief  within  half  an  hour,  and 
never  lost  touch  till  I  knew  how  she  had  worked 
the  job." 

"The  Bow  Street  method." 

"Why  didn't  you  try  something  of  the  sort 
with  regard  to  Fenley 's  bonds'?" 

"I  couldn't  be  crude,  even  with  a  City  finan- 
cier. I  put  it  gently  that  the  money  was  in  the 
family;  he  blinked  at  me  like  an  owl,  said  that 
he  would  give  thought  to  the  suggestion,  and 
shut  down  the  inquiry  by  telephone  before  I 
reached  the  Yard  from  his  office." 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?  It  seems  to  me  you've 
made  a  pretty  good  guess  in  associating  the 
bonds  and  the  murder.  You've  seen  both  sons, 
of  course?" 

"Yes,  often." 

"Are  there  other  members  of  the  family  I" 


48  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

"An  invalid  wife,  never  away  from  The  Tow- 
ers ;  and  a  young  lady,  Miss  Sylvia  Manning — 
a  ward,  and  worth  a  pile.  By  the  way,  she's 
twenty.  Mortimer  Fenley,  had  he  lived,  was 
appointed  her  guardian  and  trustee  till  she 
reached  twenty-one." 

' '  Twenty ! ' '  mused  Winter. 

"Yes,  twice  ten,"  snapped  Furneaux. 

"And  Fenley  has  cut  a  figure  in  the  City  for 
twenty  years." 

1 '  I  was  sure  your  gray  matter  would  be  stim- 
ulated by  its  favorite  poison." 

"Charles,  this  should  be  an  easy  thing." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  Dead  men  tell  no  tales, 
and  Fenley  himself  could  probably  supply  many 
chapters  of  an  exciting  story.  They  will  be 
missing.  Look  at  the  repeated  failures  of  emi- 
nent authors  to  complete  'Edwin  Drood.'  How 
would  they  have  fared  if  asked  to  produce  the 
beginning!" 

"Still,  I'm  glad  you  attended  to  those  bonds. 
Who  had  charge  of  the  Paris  end?" 

"Jacques  Faure." 

"Ah,  a  good  man." 

"Pretty  fair,  for  a  Frenchman." 

Winter  laughed. 

"You  born  frog!"  he  cried.  .  .  .  "Hello, 
there's  a  Eoxton  sign  post.  Now  let's  compose 
our  features.  We  are  near  The  Towers." 

The  estate  figured  on  the  county  map,  so  the 
chauffeur  pulled  up  at  the  right  gate.  A 


THE  HOUNDS  49 

woman  came  from  the  lodge  to  inquire  their  bus- 
iness, and  admitted  the  car  when  told  that  its 
occupants  had  been  summoned  by  Mr.  Hilton 
Fenley. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Furneaux  carelessly,  "is 
Mr.  Robert  at  home!" 

"No,  sir." 

"When  did  he  leave!" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  sir." 

Mrs.  Bates  knew  quite  well,  and  Furneaux 
knew  that  she  knew. 

"The  country  domestic  is  the  detective's 
aversion,"  he  said  as  the  car  whirred  into  the 
avenue.  "The  lady  of  the  lodge  will  be  a  suf- 
ficiently tough  proposition  if  we  try  to  drag  in- 
formation out  of  her,  but  the  real  tug  of  war 
will  come  when  we  tackle  the  family  butler. ' ' 

"Her  husband  is  also  the  head  keeper,"  said 
Winter. 

"Name  of  Bates,"  added  Furneaux. 

' '  Oh,  you  Ve  been  here  before,  then  ? ' ' 

"No.  While  you  were  taking  stock  of  the 
kennels  generally,  I  was  deciphering  a  printed 
label  on  a  box  of  dog  biscuit. ' ' 

"I  hardly  feel  that  I've  begun  this  inquiry 
yet,"  said  Winter  airily. 

"You'd  better  pull  yourself  together.  The 
dead  man's  limousine  is  still  waiting  at  the 
door,  and  the  local  doctor  is  in  attendance." 

"Walter  J.  Stern,  M.D." 

"Probably.  That  brass  plate  on  the  Georgian 


50  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

house  in  the  center  of  the  village  positively 
glistened." 

They  were  received  by  Hilton  Fenley  himself, 
all  the  available  men  servants  having  been 
transferred  to  the  cohort  organized  and  directed 
by  Police  Constable  Farrow. 

' '  Good  morning,  Mr.  Furneanx, ' '  said  Fenley. 
-'I  little  thought,  when  last  we  met,  that  I 
should  be  compelled  to  seek  your  help  so  soon 
again,  and  under  such  dreadful  circumstances." 

Furneaux,  whose  face  could  display  at  will  a 
Japanese  liveliness  of  expression  or  become  a 
mask  of  Indian  gravity,  surveyed  the  speaker 
with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"This  is  Superintendent  Winter,  Chief  of  my 
Department,"  he  said. 

"The  Assistant  Commissioner  told  me  to  take 
charge  of  the  inquiry  without  delay,  sir,"  ex- 
plained Winter.  He  glanced  at  his  watch. 
"We  have  not  been  long  on  the  road.  It  is  only 
twenty  minutes  to  eleven. ' ' 

Fenley  led  them  through  a  spacious  hall  into 
a  dining-room  on  the  left.  On  an  oak  settee  at 
the  back  of  the  hall  the  outline  of  a  white  sheet 
was  eloquent  of  the  grim  object  beneath.  In 
the  dining-room  were  an  elderly  man  and  a  slim, 
white-faced  girl.  Had  Trenholme  been  present 
he  would  have  noted  with  interest  that  her  dress 
was  of  white  muslin  dotted  with  tiny  blue  spots 
— not  fteurs  de  lys,  but  rather  resembling  them. 

"Dr.  Stern,  and  Miss  Sylvia  Manning,"  said 


TEE  HOUNDS  51 

Fenley  to  the  newcomers.  Then  he  introduced 
the  Scotland  Yard  men  in  turn.  By  this  time 
the  young  head  of  the  family  had  schooled  him- 
self to  a  degree  of  self-control.  His  sallow  skin 
held  a  greenish  pallor,  and  as  if  to  satisfy  some 
instinct  that  demanded  movement  he  took  an 
occasional  slow  stride  across  the  parquet  floor 
or  brushed  a  hand  wearily  over  his  eyes.  Other- 
wise he  had  mastered  his  voice,  and  spoke  with- 
out the  gasping  pauses  which  had  made  distress- 
ful his  words  to  Farrow. 

"Ours  is  a  sad  errand,  Mr.  Fenley,"  began 
Winter,  after  a  hasty  glance  at  the  table,  which 
still  bore  the  disordered  array  of  breakfast. 
"But,  if  you  feel  equal  to  the  task,  you  might 
tell  us  exactly  what  happened." 

Fenley  nodded. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said  quietly. 
"That  is  essential.  We  three,  my  father,  Miss 
Manning  and  myself,  breakfasted  together. 
The  second  gong  goes  every  morning  at  eight 
forty-five,  and  we  were  fairly  punctual  today. 
My  father  and  Sylvia,  Miss  Manning,  came  in 
together — they  had  been  talking  in  the  hall  pre- 
viously. I  saw  them  entering  the  room  as  I 
came  downstairs.  During  the  meal  we  chatted 
about  affairs  in  the  East ;  that  is,  my  father  and 
I  did,  and  Syl — Miss  Manning — gave  us  some 
news  of  a  church  bazaar  in  which  she  is  taking 
part. 

"My  father  rose  first  and  went  to  his  room, 


52  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

to  collect  papers  brought  from  the  City  over- 
night. I  met  him  on  the  stairs,  and  he  gave 
me  some  instructions  about  a  prospectus.  (Let 
me  interpolate  that  I  was  going  to  Victoria  by 
a  later  train,  having  an  appointment  at  eleven 
o'clock  with  Lord  Ventnor,  chairman  of  a  com- 
pany we  are  bringing  out.)  I  stood  on  the 
stairs,  saying  something,  while  my  father 
crossed  the  hall  and  took  his  hat  and  gloves 
from  Harris,  the  footman.  As  I  passed  along 
the  gallery  to  my  own  room  I  saw  him  standing 
on  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"He  was  cutting  the  end  off  a  cigar,  and 
Harris  was  just  behind  him  and  a  little  to  the 
left,  striking  a  match.  Every  fine  morning  my 
father  lighted  a  cigar  there.  In  rain  or  high 
wind  he  would  light  up  inside  the  house.  By 
the  way,  my  mother  is  an  invalid,  and  dislikes 
the  smell  of  tobacco,  so  unless  we  have  guests 
we  don't  smoke  indoors. 

"Well,  I  had  reached  my  room,  a  sitting-room 
adjoining  my  bedroom,  when  I  heard  a  gunshot. 
Apparently  it  came  from  the  Quarry  Wood,  and 
I  was  surprised,  because  there  is  no  shooting 
at  this  season.  A  little  later — some  few  seconds 
— I  heard  Sylvia  scream.  I  did  not  rush  out 
instantly  to  discover  the  cause.  Young  ladies 
sometimes  scream  at  wasps  and  caterpillars. 
Then  I  heard  Tomlinson  say,  'Fetch  Mr.  Hilton 
at  once/  and  I  ran  into  Harris,  who  blurted 
out,  '  Mr.  Fenley  has  been  shot,  sir. ' 


THE  HOUNDS  53 

"After  that,  I  scarcely  know  what  I  said  or 
how  I  acted.  I  remember  running  downstairs, 
and  finding  my  father  lying  outside  the  front 
door,  with  Sylvia  supporting  his  head  and  Tom- 
linson  and  Brodie  trying  to  lift  him.  I  think — 
in  fact,  I  am  sure  now  from  what  Dr.  Stern 
tells  me — that  my  father  was  dead  before  I 
reached  him.  We  all  thought  at  first  that  he 
had  yielded  to  some  awfully  sudden  form  of 
paralysis,  but  some  one — Tomlinson,  I  believe — 
noticed  a  hole  through  the  right  side  of  his  coat 
and  waistcoat.  Then  Sylvia — oh,  perhaps  that 
is  matterless " 

"Every  incident,  however  slight,  is  of  im- 
portance in  a  case  of  this  sort, ' '  Winter  encour- 
aged him. 

"Well,  she  said — what  was  it,  exactly?  Do 
you  remember,  Sylvia?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  girl,  unhesitatingly. 
"I  said  that  I  thought  I  recognized  the  sound 
of  Bob's  .450.  Why  shouldn't  I  say  it!  Poor 
Bob  didn't  shoot  his  father." 

Her  voice,  though  singularly  musical,  had  a 
tearful  ring  which  became  almost  hysterical  in 
the  vehemence  of  the  question  and  its  dis- 
claimer. 

Fenley  moved  uneasily,  and  raised  his  right 
hand  to  his  eyes,  while  the  left  grasped  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

"Bob  is  my  brother  Robert,  who  is  away  from 
home  at  this  moment,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  de- 


54  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

precated  the  mere  allusion  to  the  rifle  owned 
by  the  absentee.  "I  only  mentioned  Miss  Man- 
ning's words  to  show  how  completely  at  a  loss 
we  all  were  to  account  for  my  father's  wound. 
I  helped  Tomlinson  and  Brodie  to  carry  him  to 
the  settee  in  the  hall.  Then  we — Tomlinson, 
that  is — opened  his  waistcoat  and  shirt.  Tom- 
linson cut  the  shirt  with  a  scissors,  and  we  saw 
the  wound.  Dr.  Stern  says  there  are  indica- 
tions that  an  expanding  bullet  was  used,  so  the 
injuries  must  have  been  something  appalling. 
.  .  .  Sylvia,  don't  you  think " 

"I'll  not  faint,  or  make  a  scene,  if  that  is 
what  you  are  afraid  of,  Hilton,"  said  the  girl 
bravely.  i\ 

"That  is  all,  then,  or  nearly  all,"  went  on 
Fenley,  in  the  same  dreary,  monotonous  voice. 
"I  telephoned  to  Dr.  Stern,  and  to  Scotland 
Yard,  deeming  it  better  to  communicate  with 
you  than  with  the  local  police.  But  it  seems 
that  Bates,  our  head  keeper  hurrying  to  investi- 
gate the  cause  of  the  shot,  met  some  artist  com- 
ing away  from  the  other  side  of  the  wood.  The 
Roxton  police  constable  too,  met  and  spoke  with 
the  same  man,  who  told  both  Bates  and  the  po- 
liceman that  he  heard  the  shot  fired.  The  police- 
man, Farrow,  refused  to  arrest  the  artist,  and 
is  now  searching  the  wood  with  a  number  of 
our  men " 

"Can't  they  be  stopped!"  broke  in  Fur- 
neaux,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 


THE  HOUNDS  55 

"Yes,  of  course,"  and  Hilton  Fenley  became 
a  trifle  more  animated.  "I  wanted  Farrow  to 
wait  till  you  came,  but  lie  insisted — said  the 
murderer  might  be  hiding  there." 

"When  did  Farrow  arrive?" 

' '  Oh,  more  than  half  an  hour  after  my  father 
was  shot.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  my  mother 
knows  nothing  of  the  tragedy  yet.  That  is  why 
we  did  not  carry  my  poor  father's  body  up- 
stairs. She  might  overhear  the  shuffling  of  feet, 
and  ask  the  cause. ' ' 

"One  thing  more,  Mr.  Fenley,"  said  "Winter, 
seeing  that  the  other  had  made  an  end.  "Have 
you  the  remotest  reason  to  believe  that  any  per- 
son harbored  a  grievance  against  your  father 
such  as  might  lead  to  the  commission  of  a  crime 
of  this  nature  ? ' ' 

"I've  been  torturing  my  mind  with  that  prob- 
lem since  I  realized  that  my  father  was  dead, 
and  I  can  say  candidly  that  he  had  no  enemies. 
Of  course,  in  business,  one  interferes  occa- 
sionally with  other  men's  projects,  but  people 
in  the  City  do  not  shoot  successful  oppo- 
nents." 

"No  private  feud?  No  dismissed  servant, 
sent  off  because  of  theft  or  drunkenness  ? ' ' 

"Absolutely  none,  to  my  knowledge.  The 
youngest  man  on  the  estate  has  been  employed 
here  five  or  six  years." 

"It  is  a  very  extraordinary  crime,  Mr.  Fen- 
ley." 


56  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

For  answer,  the  other  sank  into  a  chair  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"How  can  we  get  those  clodhoppers  out  of 
the  wood!"  said  Furneaux.  His  thin,  high- 
pitched  voice  dispelled  the  tension,  and  Fenley 
dropped  his  hands. 

"  Bates  is  certain  to  make  for  a  rock  which 
commands  a  view  of  the  house, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Per- 
haps, if  we  go  to  the  door,  we  may  see  them. ' ' 

He  arose  with  obvious  effort,  but  walked 
steadily  enough.  Winter  followed  with  the  doc- 
tor, and  inquired  in  an  undertone — 

"Are  you  sure  about  the  soft-nosed  bullet, 
doctor  t" 

"Quite,"  was  the  answer.  "I  was  in  the 
Tirah  campaign,  and  saw  hundreds  of  such 
wounds. ' ' 

Furneaux,  too,  had  something  to  say  to  Miss 
Manning. 

"How  were  you  seated  during  breakfast!" 
he  asked. 

She  showed  him.  It  was  a  large  room.  Two 
windows  looked  down  the  avenue,  and  three  into 
the  garden,  with  its  background  of  timber  and 
park.  Mr.  Mortimer  Fenley  could  have  com- 
manded both  views;  his  son  sat  with  his  back 
to  the  park ;  the  girl  had  faced  it. 

"I  need  hardly  put  it  to  you,  but  you  saw  no 
one  in  or  near  the  trees?"  said  Furneaux. 

"Not  a  soul.  I  bathe  in  a  little  lake  below 
those  cedars  every  morning,  and  it  is  an  estate 


THE  HOUNDS  57 

order  that  the  men  do  not  go  in  that  direction 
between  eight  and  nine  o'clock.  Of  course,  a 
keeper  might  have  passed  at  nine  thirty,  but  it 
is  most  unlikely." 

1  'Did  you  bathe  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  soon  after  eight." 

"Did  you  see  the  artist  of  whom  Mr.  Fenley 
spoke?" 

"No.  This  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  any 
artist.  Bates  must  have  mentioned  him  while 
I  was  with  Dr.  Stern." 

When  Farrow  arrived  at  the  head  of  his  le- 
gion he  was  just  in  time  to  salute  his  Inspector, 
who  had  cycled  from  Easton  after  receiving  the 
news  left  by  the  chauffeur  at  the  police  station. 
Farrow  was  bursting  with  impatience  to  reveal 
the  discoveries  he  had  made,  though  resolved  to 
keep  locked  in  his  own  breast  the  secret  confided 
by  Bates.  He  was  thoroughly  nonplussed, 
therefore,  when  Winter,  after  listening  in  si- 
lence to  the  account  of  the  footprints  and 
scratches  on  the  moss-covered  surface  of  the 
rock,  turned  to  Hilton  Fenley. 

"With  reference  to  the  rifle  which  has  been 
mentioned — where  is  it  kept?  he  said. 

"In  my  brother's  room.  He  bought  it  nearly 
a  year  ago,  when  he  was  planning  an  expedition 
to  Somaliland." 

"May  I  see  it?" 

Fenley  signed  to  the  butler,  who  was  stand- 
ing with  the  others  at  a  little  distance. 


58  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"You  know  the  .450  Express  which  is  in  the 
gun  rack  in  Mr.  Robert's  den  I"  he  said. 
"Bring  it  to  the  Superintendent." 

Tomlinson,  shaken  but  dignified,  and  rather 
purple  of  face  as  the  result  of  the  tramp 
through  the  trees,  went  indoors.  Soon  he  came 
back,  and  the  rich  tint  had  faded  again  from 
his  complexion. 

"Sorry,  sir,"  he  said  huskily,  "but  the  rifle 
is  not  there." 

"Not  there!" 

It  was  Sylvia  Manning  who  spoke ;  the  others 
received  this  sinister  fact  in  silence. 

"No,  miss." 

"Are  you  quite  sure!"  asked  Fenley. 

"It  is  not  in  the  gun  rack,  sir,  nor  in  any  of 
the  corners." 

There  was  a  pause.  Fenley  clearly  forced  the 
next  words. 

"That's  all  right.  Bates  may  have  it  in  the 
gun  room.  We  '11  ask  him.  Or  Mr.  Robert  may 
have  taken  it  to  the  makers.  I  remember  now 
he  spoke  of  having  the  sight  fitted  with  some 
new  appliance." 

He  called  Bates.  No,  the  missing  rifle  was 
not  in  the  gun  room.  Somehow  the  notion  was 
forming  in  certain  minds  that  it  could  not  be 
there.  Indeed,  the  keeper's  confusion  was  so 
marked  that  Furneaux's  glance  dwelt  on  him 
for  a  contemplative  second. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

BREAKING  COVER 

WINTER  drew  the  local  Inspector  aside. 
"This  inquiry  rests  with  you  in  the  first  in- 
stance," he  said.  "Mr.  Furneaux  and  I  are 
here  only  to  assist.  Mr.  Fenley  telephoned  to 
the  Commissioner,  mainly  because  Scotland 
Yard  was  called  in  to  investigate  a  bond  rob- 
bery which  took  place  in  the  Fenley  Bank  some 
two  months  ago.  Probably  you  never  heard  of 
it.  Will  you  kindly  explain  our  position  to  your 
Chief  Constable?  Of  course,  we  shall  work 
with  you  and  through  you,  but  my  colleague  has 
reason  to  believe  that  the  theft  of  the  bonds  may 
have  some  bearing  on  this  murder,  and,  as  the 
securities  were  disposed  of  in  Paris,  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  the  Yard  may  be  helpful." 

"I  fully  understand,  sir,"  said  the  Inspector, 
secretly  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  joining  in 
the  hunt  with  two  such  renowned  detectives. 
The  combined  parishes  of  Easton  and  Koxton 
seldom  produced  a  crime  of  greater  magnitude 
than  the  theft  of  a  duck.  The  arrest  of  a  bur- 
glar who  broke  into  a  villa,  found  a  decanter  of 
whisky,  and  got  so  hopelessly  drunk  that  he 
woke  up  in  a  cell  at  the  police  station,  was  an 

59 


60  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

event  of  such  magnitude  that  its  memory  was 
still  lively,  though  the  leading  personage  was 
now  out  on  ticket  of  leave  after  serving  five 
years  in  various  penal  settlements, 

"You  will  prepare  and  give  the  formal  evi- 
dence at  the  inquest,  which  will  be  opened  to- 
morrow," went  on  Winter.  "All  that  is  really 
necessary  is  identification  and  a  brief  statement 
by  the  doctor.  Then  the  coroner  will  issue  the 
burial  certificate,  and  the  inquiry  should  be  ad- 
journed for  a  fortnight.  I  would  recommend 
discretion  in  choosing  a  jury.  Avoid  busy- 
bodies  like  the  plague.  Summons  only  sensible 
men,  who  will  do  as  they  are  told  and  ask  no 
questions." 

"Exactly,"  said  the  Inspector;  he  found 
Machiavellian  art  in  these  simple  instructions. 
How  it  broadened  the  horizon  to  be  brought  in 
touch  with  London ! 

Winter  turned  to  look  for  Furneaux.  The 
little  man  was  standing  where  Mortimer  Fen- 
ley  had  stood  in  the  last  moment  of  his  life. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  wood.  He  seemed 
to  be  dreaming,  but  his  friend  well  knew  how 
much  clarity  and  almost  supernatural  vision 
was  associated  with  Furneaux 's  dreams. 

"Charles!"  said  the  Superintendent  softly. 

Furneaux  awoke,  and  ran  down  the  steps.  In 
his  straw  hat  and  light  Summer  suit  he  looked 
absurdly  boyish,  but  the  Inspector,  who  had 
formed  an  erroneous  first  impression,  was  posi- 


BREAKING  COVER  61 

tively  startled  when  he  met  those  blazing  black 
eyes. 

"Mr.  Fenley  should  warn  all  his  servants  to 
speak  fully  and  candidly, ' '  said  Winter.  ' '  Then 
we  shall  question  the  witnesses  separately. 
What  do  you  think  I  Shall  we  start  now  ? ' ' 

"First,  the  boots,"  cried  Furneaux,  seem- 
ingly voicing  a  thought.  '  *  We  want  a  worn  pair 
of  boots  belonging  to  each  person  in  the  house 
and  employed  on  the  estate,  men  and  women, 
no  exceptions,  including  the  dead  man's. 
Then  we'll  visit  that  wood.  After  that,  the 
inquiry." 

Winter  nodded.  When  Furneaux  and  he  were 
in  pursuit  of  a  criminal  they  dropped  all  nice 
distinctions  of  rank.  If  one  made  a  suggestion 
the  other  adopted  it  without  comment  unless  he 
could  urge  some  convincing  argument  against 
it. 

"Mr.  Fenley  should  give  his  orders  now," 
added  Furneaux. 

Winter  explained  his  wishes  to  the  nominal 
head  of  the  household,  and  Fenley  'a  compliance 
was  ready  and  explicit. 

"These  gentlemen  from  Scotland  Yard  are 
acting  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  Fenley,  my  brother  and 
myself,"  he  said  to  the  assembled  servants. 
"You  must  obey  them  as  you  would  obey  me. 
I  place  matters  unreservedly  in  their  hands. ' ' 

"And  our  questions  should  be  answered  with- 
out reserve,"  put  in  Winter. 


62  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  implied  that.  At  any  rate, 
it  is  clear  now." 

"Brodie,"  said  Furneaux,  seeming  to  pounce 
on  the  chauffeur,  "you  were  seated  at  the  wheel 
when  the  shot  was  fired?" 

"Ye — yes,  sir,"  stuttered  Brodie,  rather 
taken  aback  by  the  little  man's  suddenness. 

"Were  you  looking  at  the  wood?" 

"In  a  sort  of  a  way,  sir." 

"Did  you  see  any  one  among  the  trees?" 

"No,  sir,  that  I  didn't."  This  more  confi- 
dently. 

"Place  your  car  where  it  was  stationed  then. 
Take  your  seat,  and  try  to  imagine  that  you  are 
waiting  for  your  master.  Start  the  engine,  and 
behave  exactly  as  though  you  expected  him  to 
enter  the  car.  Don't  watch  the  wood.  I  mean 
that  you  are  not  to  avoid  looking  at  it,  but  just 
throw  yourself  back  to  the  condition  of  mind 
you  were  in  at  nine  twenty-five  this  morning. 
Can  you  manage  that?" 

"I  think  so,  sir." 

"No  chatting  with  others,  you  know.  Fancy 
you  are  about  to  take  Mr.  Fenley  to  the  station. 
If  you  should  happen  to  see  me,  wave  your 
hand.  Then  you  can  get  down  and  stop  the 
engine.  You  understand  you  are  not  to  keep  a 
sharp  lookout  for  me?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  butler  thought  it  would  take  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  to  collect  sample  pairs  of  boots  from 


BREAKING  COVER  63 

the  house  and  outlying  cottages.  Police  Con- 
stable Farrow  was  instructed  to  bring  the  butler 
and  the  array  of  boots  to  the  place  where  the 
footprints  were  found,  and  Bates  led  the  de- 
tectives and  the  Inspector  thither  at  once. 

Soon  the  four  men  were  gazing  at  the  telltale 
marks,  and  the  Inspector,  of  course,  was  ready 
with  a  shrewd  comment. 

"Whoever  it  was  that  came  this  way,  he 
didn't  take  much  trouble  to  hide  his  tracks," 
he  said. 

The  Scotland  Yard  experts  were  so  obviously 
impressed  that  the  Inspector  tried  a  higher 
flight. 

"They're  a  man's  boots,"  he  continued. 
"We  needn't  have  worried  Tomlinson  to  gather 
the  maids '  footgear. ' ' 

Furneaux  left  two  neat  imprints  in  the  damp 
soil. 

"Bet  you  a  penny  whistle  there  are  at  least 
two  women  in  The  Towers  who  will  make  big- 
ger blobs  than  these, ' '  he  said. 

A  penny  whistle,  as  a  wager,  is  what  Police 
Constable  Farrow  would  term  "unusual." 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  Inspector  thoughtfully. 

Winter  caught  Furneaux 's  eye,  and  frowned. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  taking  a  rise 
out  of  the  local  constabulary.  Still,  he  gave 
one  sharp  glance  at  both  sets  of  footprints. 
Then  he  looked  at  Furneaux  again,  this  time 
with  a  smile. 


64  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

The  party  passed  on  to  the  rock  on  the  higher 
ground.  Bates  pointed  out  the  old  scratches, 
and  those  made  by  Farrow  and  himself. 

"Me  first!"  cried  Furneaux,  darting  nimbly 
to  the  summit.  He  was  not  there  a  second  be- 
fore he  signaled  to  some  one  invisible  from  be- 
neath. Winter  joined  him,  and  the  east  front 
of  the  house  burst  into  view.  Brodie  was  in  the 
act  of  descending  from  the  car.  The  doctor  had 
gone.  A  small  group  of  men  were  gazing  at 
the  wood,  but  Hilton  Fenley  and  Sylvia  Man- 
ning were  not  to  be  seen. 

Neither  man  uttered  a  word.  They  looked 
at  the  rock  under  their  feet,  at  the  surrounding 
trees,  oak  and  ash,  elm  and  larch,  all  of  mature 
growth,  and  towering  thirty  to  forty  feet  above 
their  heads,  while  the  rock  itself  rose  some 
twelve  feet  from  the  general  level  of  the  slop- 
ing ground. 

Bates  was  watching  them. 

"The  fact  is,  gentlemen,  that  if  an  oak  an*  a 
couple  o*  spruce  first  hadn't  been  cut  down  you 
wouldn't  see  the  house  even  from  where  you 
are,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Fenley  had  an  idee  of 
buildin'  a  shelter  on  this  rock,  but  he  let  it  alone 
'coss  o '  the  birds.  Ladies  would  be  comin'  here, 
an'  a-disturbin'  of  'em." 

The  detectives  came  down.  Furneaux,  mean- 
ing to  put  the  Inspector  in  the  right  frame  of 
mind,  said  confidentially — 

"Brodie  saw  me  instantly." 


BREAKING  COVER  65 

"Did  he,  now!  It  follows  that  he  would 
have  seen  any  one  who  fired  at  Mr.  Fenley  from 
that  spot." 

"It  almost  follows.  We  must  guard  against 
assuming  a  chance  as  a  certainty." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  we  must  also  try  to  avoid  fitting  facts 
into  preconceived  notions.  Now,  while  the  but- 
ler is  gathering  old  boots,  let  us  spend  a  few 
profitable  minutes  in  this  locality." 

After  that,  any  trace  of  soreness  in  the  in- 
spectorial breast  was  completely  obliterated. 

Both  Winter  and  Furneaux  produced  strong 
magnifying-glasses,  and  scrutinized  the 
scratches  and  impressions  on  the  bare  rock 
and  moss.  Bates,  skilled  in  wood  lore,  was 
quick  to  note  what  they  had  discerned  at  a 
glance. 

"Beg  pardon,  gentlemen  both,  but  may  I  put 
in  a  word?"  he  muttered  awkwardly. 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  Winter  assured  him. 

"Well,  these  here  marks  was  made  by  Farrow 
an'  meself,  say  about  ten  forty,  or  a  trifle  over 
an  hour  after  the  murder;  an'  I  have  no  sort 
o'  doubt  as  these  other  marks  are  a  day  or 
two  days  older." 

"You  might  even  put  it  at  three  days," 
agreed  Winter. 

"Then  it  follows "  began  the  Inspector, 

but  checked  himself.  He  was  becoming  slightly 
mixed  as  to  the  exact  sequence  of  events. 


66  MORTIMER  FENLEY. 

"Come,  now,  Bates, "  said  Furneaux,  "you 
can  tell  ns  the  day  Mr.  Robert  Fenley  left  home 
recently?  There  is  no  harm  in  mentioning  his 
name.  It  can't  help  being  in  our  thoughts, 
since  it  was  discovered  that  his  gun  was  miss- 
ing. " 

' '  He  went  off  on  a  motor  bicycle  last  Satur- 
day mornin',  sir." 

"Can  you  fix  the  hour?" 

"About  half  past  ten." 

"You  have  not  seen  him  since?" 

"No,  sir." 

"You  would  be  likely  to  know  if  he  had  re- 
turned?" 

"Certain,  sir,  unless  he  kem  by  the  Eoxton 
gate." 

"Oh,  is  there  another  entrance?" 

"Yes,  but  it  can't  be  used,  'cept  by  people 
on  foot.  The  big  gates  are  always  locked,  and 
the  road  has  been  grassed  over,  an'  not  so  many 
folk  know  of  a  right  of  way.  Of  course,  Mr. 
Robert  knows." 

Bates  was  disturbed.  He  expected  to  be 
cross-examined  farther,  but,  to  his  manifest  re- 
lief, the  ordeal  was  postponed.  Winter  and 
Furneaux  commenced  a  careful  scrutiny  of  the 
ground  behind  the  rock.  They  struck  off  on 
different  paths,  but  came  together  at  a  little 
distance. 

"The  trees,"  murmured  Winter. 

"Yes,  when  we  are  alone." 


BREAKING  COVER  67 

"Have  you  noticed " 

"These  curious  pads.  They  mean  a  lot.  It's 
not  so  easy,  James." 

"I'm  growing  interested,  I  admit." 

They  rejoined  the  others. 

"Did  you  tell  me  that  only  you  and  Police 
Constable  Farrow  visited  this  part  of  the 
wood?"  said  Furneaux  to  Bates. 

"I  don't  remember  tellin'  you,  sir,  but  that's 
the  fact,"  said  the  keeper. 

"Well,  warn  all  the  estate  hands  to  keep 
away  from  this  section  during  the  next  few 
days.  You  will  give  orders  to  Farrow  to  that 
effect,  Inspector?" 

"Yes.  If  they  go  trampling  all  over,  you 
won't  know  where  you  are  when  it  comes  to  a 
close  search,"  was  the  cheerful  answer.  "Now, 
about  that  gun — it  must  be  hidden  somewhere 
in  the  undergrowth.  The  man  who  fired  it 
would  never  dare  to  carry  it  along  an  open 
road  on  a  fine  morning  like  this,  when  every- 
body is  astir." 

"You're  undoubtedly  right,"  said  Winter. 
1 '  But  here  come  assorted  boots.  They  may  help 
us  a  bit." 

Tomlinson  was  a  man  of  method.  He  and 
Farrow  had  brought  two  wicker  baskets,  such 
as  are  used  in  laundry  work.  He  was  rather 
breathless. 

"House — and  estate,"  he  wheezed,  pointing 
to  each  basket  in  turn. 


68  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Go  ahead,  Furneaux,"  said  Winter.  "Be- 
cause I  ought  to  stoop,  I  don't." 

The  little  man  choked  back  some  gibe;  the 
presence  of  strangers  enforced  respect  to  his 
chief.  He  took  a  thin  folding  rule  of  aluminum 
from  a  waistcoat  pocket,  and  applied  it  to  the 
most  clearly  defined  of  the  three  footprints. 
Then  beginning  at  the  "house"  basket,  he  ran 
over  the  contents  rapidly.  One  pair  of 
boots  he  set  aside.  After  testing  the  "estate" 
basket  without  success,  he  seized  one  of  the 
selected  pair,  and  pressed  it  into  the  earth 
close  to  an  original  print.  He  looked  up 
at  Tomlinson,  who  was  in  a  violent  perspira- 
tion. 

"Whose  boot  is  this?"  he  asked. 

"God  help  us,  sir,  it's  Mr.  Robert's!"  said 
Tomlinson  in  an  agonized  tone. 

The  Inspector,  Farrow  and  Bates  were  visibly 
thrilled;  but  Furneaux  only  sank  back  on  his 
heels,  and  peered  at  the  boot. 

1 '  I  don 't  understand  why  any  one  should  feel 
upset  because  these  footprints  (which,  by  the 
way,  were  not  made  by  this  pair  of  boots) 
happen  to  resemble  marks  which  may  have 
been  made  by  Mr.  Robert  Fenley,"  he  said, 
apparently  talking  to  himself.  "These  marks 
are  three  or  four  days  old.  Mr.  Robert  Fenley 
went  away  on  Saturday.  Today  is  Wednesday. 
He  may  have  been  here  on  Saturday  morning. 
What  does  it  matter  if  he  was  ?  The  man  who 


BREAKING  COVER  69 

murdered  his  father  must  have  been  here  two 
hours  ago.'* 

Sensation !  Tomlinson  mopped  his  forehead 
with  a  handkerchief  already  a  wet  rag;  Farrow, 
not  daring  to  interfere,  nibbled  his  chin  strap ; 
Bates  scowled  with  relief.  But  the  Inspector, 
after  a  husky  cough,  spoke. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,  Mr.  Furneaux, 
why  you  are  so  sure  I"  he  said. 

"Now,  Professor  Bates,  you  tell  him," 
cackled  Furneaux. 

The  keeper  dropped  on  his  knees  by  the  side 
of  the  detective,  and  gazed  critically  at  the 
marks. 

"At  this  time  o'  year,  gentlemen,  things  do 
grow  wonderful, ' '  he  said  slowly.  ' '  In  this  sort 
o'  ground,  where  there's  wet  an'  shade,  there's 
a  kind  o'  constant  movement.  This  here  new 
print  is  clean,  an'  the  broken  grass  an'  crushed 
leaves  haven't  had  time  to  straighten  them- 
selves, as  one  might  say.  But,  in  this  other  lot, 
the  shoots  are  commencin'  to  perk  up,  an'  in- 
sec 's  have  stirred  the  mold.  It's  just  the  dif- 
ference atween  a  new  run  for  rabbits  and  an  old 
'un." 

"Thank  you,  Bates,"  broke  in  Winter 
sharply.  "Now,  we  must  not  waste  any  more 
time  in  demonstrations.  Mr.  Furneaux  ex- 
plained this  thing  purposely,  to  show  the  folly 
of  jumping  at  conclusions.  Innocent  men  have 
been  hanged  before  today  on  just  such  evidence 


70  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

as  this.  We  should  deem  ourselves  lucky  that 
these  footprints  were  found  so  soon  after  the 
crime  was  committed.  Tomorrow,  or  next  day, 
there  might  have  been  a  doubt  in  our  minds. 
Luckily  there  is  none.  The  man  who  shot 
Mr.  Fenley  this  morning — "  he  paused;  Fur- 
neaux  alone  appreciated  his  difficulty — "could 
not  possibly  have  left  those  marks  to- 
day." 

It  was  a  lame  ending,  but  it  sufficed.  Four 
of  his  hearers  took  him  to  mean  that  the  un- 
known, whose  feet  had  left  their  impress  in  the 
soil  could  not  have  been  the  murderer ;  but  Fur- 
neaux  growled  in  French — 

"You  tripped  badly  that  time,  my  friend. 
You  need  another  cigar!" 

Seemingly,  he  was  soliloquizing,  and  none 
understood  except  the  one  person  for  whose 
benefit  the  sarcasm  was  intended. 

Winter  felt  the  spur,  but  because  he  was  a 
really  great  detective  it  only  stimulated  him. 
Nothing  more  was  said  until  the  little  proces- 
sion reached  the  avenue.  During  their  brief 
disappearance  in  the  leafy  depths  two  cars  and 
three  motor  cycles  had  arrived  at  The  Towers. 
A  glance  sufficed.  The  newspapers  had  heard 
of  the  murder;  this  was  the  advance  guard  of 
an  army  of  reporters  and  photographers.  Win- 
ter buttonholed  the  Inspector. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  most  valuable  service  you 
can  render  at  this  moment, ' '  he  said.  "Arrange 


BREAKING  COVER  71 

that  a  constable  shall  mount  guard  at  the  rock 
till  nightfall.  Then  place  two  on  duty.  With 
four  men  you  can  provide  the  necessary  reliefs, 
but  I  want  that  place  watched  continuously, 
and  intruders  warned  off  till  further  notice. 
This  man  who  happens  to  be  here  might  go 
on  duty  immediately.  Then  you  can  make  your 
plans  at  leisure." 

Thus,  by  the  quaint  contriving  of  chance,  Po- 
lice Constable  Farrow,  whose  stalwart  form  and 
stubborn  zeal  had  blocked  the  path  to  the 
Quarry  Wood  since  a  few  minutes  after  ten 
o  'clock,  was  deputed  to  continue  that  particular 
duty  till  a  comrade  took  his  place. 

His  face  fell  when  he  heard  that  he  was 
condemned  to  solitude,  shut  out  from  all  the 
excitement  of  the  hour,  debarred  even,  as  he 
imagined,  from  standing  on  the  rock  and  watch- 
ing the  comings  and  goings  at  the  mansion.  But 
Winter  was  a  kindly  if  far-seeing  student  of 
human  nature. 

'  *  It  will  be  a  bit  slow  for  you, ' '  he  said,  when 
the  Inspector  had  given  Farrow  his  orders. 
"But  you  can  amuse  yourself  by  an  occasional 
peep  at  the  landscape,  and  there  is  no  reason 
why  you  shouldn't  smoke." 

Farrow  saluted. 

"Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  I  can  show  myself?" 

"Why  not?  The  mere  fact  that  your  pres- 
ence is  known  will  warn  off  priers.  Kemember 
—no  one,  absolutely  no  one  except  the  police, 


72  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

is  to  be  allowed  to  pass  the  quarry,  or  approach 
from  any  side  within  hailing  distance." 

"Not  even  from  the  house,  sir!" 

"Exactly.  Mr.  Fenley  and  Miss  Manning 
may  be  told,  if  necessary,  why  you  are  there, 
and  I  am  sure  they  will  respect  my  wishes." 

Farrow  turned  back.  It  was  not  so  bad,  then. 
These  Scotland  Yard  fellows  had  chosen  him 
for  an  important  post,  and  that  hint  about  a 
pipe  was  distinctly  human.  Odd  thing,  too,  that 
Mr.  Robert  Fenley  was  not  expected  to  put  in 
an  appearance,  or  the  Superintendent  would 
have  mentioned  him  with  the  others. 

On  reaching  the  house  there  were  evidences 
of  disturbance.  Hilton  Fenley  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  was  haranguing  the  newspaper 
men  in  a  voice  harsh  with  anger.  This  intru- 
sion was  unwarranted,  illegal,  impudent.  He 
would  have  them  expelled  by  force.  When  he 
caught  sight  of  the  Inspector  he  demanded 
fiercely  that  names  and  addresses  should  be 
taken,  so  that  his  solicitors  might  issue  sum- 
monses for  trespass. 

All  this,  of  course,  made  excellent  copy,  and 
Winter  put  an  end  to  the  scene  by  drawing  the 
reporters  aside  and  giving  them  a  fairly  com- 
plete account  of  the  murder.  Incidentally,  he 
sent  off  the  Inspector  post  haste  on  his  bicycle 
to  station  a  constable  at  each  gate,  and  stop  the 
coming  invasion.  The  house  telephone,  too, 
closed  the  main  gate  effectually,  so  when  the 


BREAKING  COVER  73 

earliest  scouts  had  rushed  away  to  connect  with 
Fleet  Street  order  was  restored. 

Winter  was  puzzled  by  Fenley's  display  of 
passion.  It  was  only  to  be  expected  that  the 
newspapers  would  break  out  in  a  rash  of  black 
headlines  over  the  murder  of  a  prominent  Lon- 
don financier.  By  hook  or  by  crook,  journalism 
would  triumph.  He  had  often  been  amazed  at 
the  extent  and  accuracy  of  news  items  concern- 
ing the  most  secret  inquiries.  Of  course  the  re- 
porters sometimes  missed  the  heart  of  an  intri- 
cate case.  In  this  instance,  they  had  never 
heard  of  the  bond  robbery,  though  the  num- 
bers of  the  stolen  securities  had  been  adver- 
tised widely.  Moreover,  he  was  free  to  admit 
that  if  every  fact  known  to  the  police  were  pub- 
lished broadcast,  no  one  would  be  a  penny  the 
worse;  for  thus  far  the  crime  was  singularly 
lacking  in  motive. 

Meanwhile  Furneaux  had  fastened  on  to 
Brodie  again. 

"You  saw  me  at  once?"  he  began. 

"I  couldn't  miss  you,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur, 
a  solid,  stolid  mechanic,  who  understood  his 
engine  and  a  road  map  thoroughly,  and  left  the 
rest  to  Providence.  *  *  I  wasn  't  payin '  particular 
attention,  yet  I  twigged  you  the  minute  you 
popped  up." 

"So  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  if  any 
one  had  appeared  in  that  same  place  this 
morning  and  taken  steady  aim  at  Mr. 


74  MORTIMER  FENLEY. 

Fenley,  you  would  have  twigged  him, 
too." 

"It  strikes  me  that  way,  sir." 

"Did  you  see  nothing — not  even  a  puff  of 
smoke!  You  must  certainly  have  looked  at  the 
wood  when  you  heard  the  shot." 

"I  did,  sir.  Not  a  leaf  moved.  Just  a  couple 
of  pheasants  flew  out,  and  the  rooks  around  the 
house  kicked  up  such  a  row  that  I  didn't  know 
the  Guv 'nor  was  down  till  Harris  shouted." 

"Where  did  the  pheasants  fly  from1?" 

"They  kem  out  a  bit  below  the  rock;  but  they 
were  risin'  birds,  an'  may  have  started  from 
the  ground  higher  up." 

"No  birds  were  startled  before  the  shot  was 
fired?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,  sir.  But  June  pheas- 
ants are  very  tame,  and  they  lie  marvelous 
close.  A  pheasant  would  just  as  soon  run 
as  fly." 

The  detectives  began  a  detailed  inquiry  al- 
most at  once.  It  covered  the  ground  already 
traversed,  and  the  only  new  incident  happened 
when  Hilton  Fenley,  at  the  moment  repeating 
his  evidence,  was  called  to  the  telephone. 

"If  either  of  you  cares  to  smoke  there  are 
cigars  and  Virginia  cigarettes  on  the  side- 
board," he  said.  "Or,  if  you  prefer  Turkish, 
here  are  some,"  and  he  laid  a  gold  case  on  the 
table.  Furneaux  grabbed  it  when  the  door  had 
closed. 


BREAKING  COVER  75 

"All  neurotics  use  Turkish  cigarettes,"  lie 
said  solemnly.  "Ah,  I  guessed  it!  A  strong, 
vile,  scented  brand ! ' ' 

"Sometimes,  my  dear  Charles,  you  talk  rub- 
bish, "  sighed  Winter. 

"Maybe.  I  never  think  or  smoke  it.  'Lan- 
guage was  given  us  to  conceal  our  thoughts,' 
said  Talleyrand.  I  have  always  admired  Tal- 
leyrand, 'that  rather  middling  bishop  but  very 
eminent  knave,'  as  de  Quincey  called  him.  'Cre 
nom!  I  wonder  what  de  Quincey  meant  by 
'middling.'  A  man  who  could  keep  in  the  front 
rank  under  the  Bourbons,  during  the  Eevolu- 
tion,  with  Napoleon,  and  back  again  under  the 
Bourbons,  and  yet  die  in  bed,  must  have  been 
superhuman.  St.  Peter,  in  his  stead,  would 
have  lost  his  napper  at  least  four  times." 

Winter  stirred  uneasily,  and  gazed  out  across 
the  Italian  garden  and  park,  for  the  detectives 
were  again  installed  in  the  dining-room, 

"What  about  that  artist,  Trenholme?"  he 
said  after  a  pause. 

"We'll  look  him  up.  Before  leaving  this 
house  I  want  to  peep  into  various  rooms.  And 
there's  Tomlinson.  Tomlinson  is  a  rich  mine. 
Do  leave  him  to  me.  I'll  dig  into  him  deep, 
and  extract  ore  of  high  percentage— see  if  I 
don't." 

"Do  you  know,  Charles,  I've  a  notion  that 
we  shall  get  closer  to  bed-rock  in  London  than 
here." 


76  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Furneaux  pretended  to  look  for  an  invisible 
halo  surrounding  his  chief's  close-cropped  bul- 
let head. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said  reverently,  "you 
frighten  me  when  you  bring  off  a  brilliant  re- 
mark like  that.  I  seem  to  see  lightning  zigzag- 
ging round  Jove's  dome." 

Fenley  returned. 

"It  was  a  call  from  the  bank,"  he  announced. 
"They  have  just  seen  the  newspapers.  I 
told  them  I  would  run  up  to  town  this  after- 
noon." 

"Then  you  did  not  telephone  Bishopsgate 
Street  earlier?"  inquired  Winter,  permitting 
himself  to  be  surprised. 

"No.    I  had  other  things  to  bother  me." 

"Now,  Mr.  Fenley,  can  you  tell  me  where 
your  brother  is?" 

"I  can  not." 

He  placed  a  rather  unnecessary  emphasis  on 
the  negative.  The  question  seemed  to  disturb 
him.  Evidently,  if  he  could  consult  his  own 
wishes,  he  would  prefer  not  to  discuss  his 
brother. 

"I  take  it  he  has  not  been  home  since  leaving 
here  on  Saturday?"  persisted  Winter. 

"That  is  so." 

"Had  he  quarreled  with  your  father?" 

"There  was  a  dispute.  Eeally,  Mr.  Winter, 
I  must  decline  to  go  into  family  affairs." 

"But  the  probability  is  that  the  more  we 


BREAKING  COVER  77 

know  the  less  our  knowledge  will  affect  your 
brother." 

The  door  opened  again.  Mr.  Winter  was 
wanted  on  the  telephone.  Then  there  hap- 
pened one  of  those  strange  coincidences  which 
Furneaux's  caustic  wit  had  christened  "Win- 
ter's Yorkers,"  being  a  quaint  play  on  the  lines : 

Now  is  the  Winter  of  our  discontent 

Made  glorious  Summer  by  this  sun  of  York. 

For  the  Superintendent  had  scarcely 
squeezed  his  big  body  into  the  telephone  box 
when  he  became  aware  of  a  mixup  on  the  line ; 
a  querulous  voice  was  saying: 

"I  insist  on  being  put  through.  I  am  speak- 
ing from  Mr.  Fenley's  bank,  and  it  is  monstrous 
that  I  should  be  kept  waiting.  I've  been  trying 
for  twenty  minutes " 

Buzz.    The  protest  was  squelched. 

"Are  you  there?"  came  the  calm  accents  of 
the  Assistant  Commissioner. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Winter. 

"Any  progress?" 

"A  little.  Oddly  enough,  you  are  in  the  nick 
of  time  to  help  materially.  Will  you  ring  off, 
and  find  out  from  the  exchange  who  'phoned 
here  two  minutes  ago?  I  don't  mean  Fenley's 
Bank,  which  is  just  trying  to  get  through.  I 
want  to  know  who  made  the  preceding  call, 
which  was  effective." 

' '  I  understand.    Good-by. ' ' 


78  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

Winter  explained  in  the  dining-room  that  the 
Assistant  Commissioner  was  anxious  for  news. 
He  had  hardly  finished  when  the  footman  reap- 
peared. A  call  for  Mr.  Hilton  Fenley. 

" Confound  the  telephone,"  snapped  Fenley. 
"We  won't  have  a  moment's  peace  all  day,  I 
suppose." 

Winter  winked  heavily  at  Furneaux.  He 
waited  until  Fenley 's  hurried  footsteps  across 
a  creaking  parquet  floor  had  died  away. 

"This  is  the  bank's  call,"  he  murmured. 
' '  The  other  was  from  the  Lord  knows  who.  I  've 
put  the  Yard  on  the  track.  I  wonder  why  he 
lied  about  it." 

"He's  a  queer  sort  of  brother,  too,"  said 
Furneaux.  "It  strikes  me  he  wants  to  put 
Robert  in  the  cart." 


CHAPTER  V 
A  FAMILY  GATHERING 

FENLEY  was  frowning  when  he  reappeared. 

"Another  call  from  the  Bank,"  he  said  gruf- 
fly. ''Everything  there  is  at  sixes  and  sevens 
since  the  news  was  howled  through  the  City. 
That  is  why  I  really  must  go  to  town  later.  I'm 
not  altogether  sorry.  The  necessity  of  bring- 
ing my  mind  to  bear  on  business  will  leaven  the 
surfeit  of  horrors  I've  borne  this  morning.  .  .  . 

"Now,  about  my  brother,  Mr.  Winter.  While 
listening  to  Mr.  Brown's  condolences — you  re- 
member Brown,  the  cashier,  Mr.  Furneaux — I 
was  thinking  of  more  vital  matters.  A  policy 
of  concealment  often  defeats  its  own  object, 
and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you 
ought  to  know  of  a  dispute  between  my  father 
and  Robert.  There's  a  woman  in  the  case,  of 
course.  It's  a  rather  unpleasant  story,  too. 
Poor  Bob  got  entangled  with  a  married  woman 
some  months  ago.  He  was  infatuated  at  first, 
but  would  have  broken  it  off  recently  were  it 
not  for  fear  of  divorce  proceedings." 

"Would  you  make  the  position  a  little  clearer, 
sir?"  said  Winter,  who  also  was  listening  and 
thinking.  He  was  quite  certain  that  when  he 

79 


80  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

met  Mr.  Brown  he  would  meet  the  man  who 
had  been  worrying  a  telephone  exchange  "dur- 
ing the  last  twenty  minutes." 

"I — I  can't."  And  Fenley's  hand  brushed 
away  some  imaginary  film  from  before  his  eyes. 
"Bob  and  I  never  hit  it  off  very  well.  We're 
only  half  brothers,  you  see." 

"Was  your  father  married  twice?" 

"Am  I  to  reopen  a  forgotten  history!" 

' '  Some  person,  or  persons,  may  not  have  for- 
gotten it." 

"Well,  you  must  have  the  full  story,  if  at  all. 
My  father  was  not  a  well-born  man.  Thirty 
years  ago  he  was  a  trainer  in  the  service  of  a 
rich  East  Indian  merchant,  Anthony  Drum- 
mond,  of  Calcutta,  who  owned  racehorses,  and 
one  of  Drummond's  daughters  fell  in  love  with 
him.  They  ran  away  and  got  married,  but  the 
marriage  was  a  failure.  She  divorced  him — 
by  mutual  consent,  I  fancy.  Anyhow,  7  was 
left  on  his  hands. 

"He  went  to  Assam,  and  fell  in  with  a  tea 
planter  named  Manning,  who  had  a  big  estate, 
but  neglected  it  for  racing.  My  father  sud- 
denly developed  business  instincts  and  Manning 
made  him  a  partner.  Unfortunately — well, 
that  is  a  hard  word,  but  it  applies — my  father 
married  again — a  girl  of  his  own  class ;  rather 
beneath  it,  in  fact.  Then  Bob  was  born. 

"The  old  man  made  money,  heaps  of  it. 
Manning  married,  but  lost  his  wife  when  Sylvia 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  81 

came  into  the  world.  That  broke  him  up;  he 
drank  himself  to  death,  leaving  his  partner  as 
trustee  and  guardian  for  the  infant.  There  was 
a  boom  in  tea  estates;  my  father  sold  on  the 
crest  of  the  wave  and  came  to  London.  He  pro- 
gressed, but  Mrs.  Fenley — didn't.  She  was 
just  a  Tommy's  daughter,  and  never  seemed  to 
try  and  rise  above  the  level  of  'married  quar- 
ters'. 

"I  had  to  mind  my  p's  and  q's  as  a  boy,  I 
can  assure  you.  My  mother  was  always  thrown 
in  my  teeth.  Mrs.  Fenley  called  her  'black.' 

It  was  a  lie.  She  was  dark-skinned,  as 

I  am,  but  there  are  Cornish  and  Welsh  folk  of 
much  darker  complexion.  My  father,  too, 
shared  something  of  the  same  prejudice.  I  had 
to  be  the  good  boy  of  the  family.  Otherwise, 
I  should  have  been  turned  out,  neck  and  crop. 

"As  I  behaved  well,  he  was  forced  to  depend 
on  me,  because  Bob  did  as  he  liked,  with  his 
mother  always  ready  to  aid  and  abet  him.  Then 
came  this  scrape  I've  spoken  of.  I  believe  Bob 
was  being  blackmailed.  That's  the  long  and 
the  short  of  it.  Now  you  know  the  plain,  un- 
garbled  facts.  Better  that  they  should  come 
from  me  than  reach  you  with  the  decorations 
of  gossip  and  servants'  tittle-tattle." 

The  somewhat  strained  and  metallic  voice 
ceased.  Fenley  was  seated  at  the  corner  of  the 
table  near  the  door.  Seemingly  yielding  to  that 
ever-present  desire  for  movement,  he  pushed 


82  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

with  his  foot  an  armchair  out  of  its  place  at 
the  head  of  the  table. 

Sylvia  Manning  had  pointed  ont  that  chair  to 
Furneaux  as  the  one  occupied  by  Mortimer  Fen- 
ley  at  breakfast. 

"Is  the  first  Mrs.  Fenley  dead?"  said  Fur- 
neaux suddenly, 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Fenley,  after  a 
pause. 

"You  are  not  sure?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  ever  tried  to  find  out?" 

"No,  I  dare  not." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"If  it  were  discovered  that  my  mother  and 
I  were  in  communication  I  would  have  been 
given  short  shrift  in  the  bank." 

"Did  she  marry  again?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Furneaux  seemed 
to  be  satisfied  that  he  was  following  a  blind 
alley,  and  Winter  became  the  inquisitor. 

"What  is  the  name  of  the  woman  with  whom 
your  brother  is  mixed  up?" 

"I  can  not  tell  you,  but  my  father  knew." 

"What  leads  you  to  form  that  opinion?" 

"Some  words  that  passed  between  Bob  and 
him  last  Saturday  morning." 

"Where?    Here?" 

"Yes,  in  the  hall.  Tomlinson  heard  more 
distinctly  than  I.  I  saw  there  was  trouble 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  83 

brewing,  and  kept  out  of  it — hung  back,  on  the 
pretense  of  reading  a  newspaper. ' ' 

"As  to  the  missing  rifle — can  you  help  us 
there?'' 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  wish  to  Heaven  Bob  had 
gone  to  Africa,  as  he  was  planning.  Then  all 
this  misery  would  have  been  avoided." 

"Do  you  mean  your  father's  death?" 

Fenley  started.  He  had  not  weighed  his 
words. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  he  cried  hurriedly.  "Don't 
try  to  trip  me  into  admissions,  Mr.  Winter.  I 
can't  stand  that,  damned  if  I  can." 

He  jumped  up,  went  to  the  sideboard  and 
mixed  himself  a  weak  brandy  and  soda,  which 
he  swallowed  as  if  his  throat  were  afire  with 
thirst. 

"I  am  not  treating  you  as  a  hostile  witness, 
sir,"  answered  Winter  calmly.  "Mr.  Furneaux 
and  I  are  merely  clearing  the  ground.  Soon 
we  shall  know,  or  believe  that  we  know,  what 
line  to  avoid  and  what  to  follow." 

"Is  Miss  Sylvia  Manning  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried?" put  in  Furneaux.  Fenley  gave  him  a 
fiendish  look. 

"What  the  devil  has  Miss  Manning's  matri- 
monial prospects  got  to  do  with  this  inquiry?" 
he  said,  and  the  venom  in  his  tone  was  hardly 
to  be  accounted  for  by  Furneaux 's  harmless- 
sounding  query. 

"One  never  knows,"  said  the  little  man,  tak- 


84  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

ing  the  unexpected  attack  with  bland  indiffer- 
ence. "You  don't  appreciate  our  position  in 
this  matter.  We  are  not  judges,  but  guessers. 
We  sit  in  the  stalls  of  a  theater,  watching  peo- 
ple on  the  stage  of  real  life  playing  four  acts 
of  a  tragedy,  and  it  is  our  business  to  construct 
the  fifth,  which  is  produced  in  court.  Let  me 
give  you  a  wildly  supposititious  version  of  that 
fifth  act  now.  Suppose  some  neurotic  fool  was 
in  love  with  Miss  Manning,  or  her  money,  and 
Mr.  Mortimer  Fenley  opposed  the  project. 
That  would  supply  a  motive  for  the  murder. 
Do  you  take  the  point?" 

"I'm  sorry  I  blazed  out  at  you.  Miss  Man- 
ning is  not  engaged  to  be  married,  nor  likely 
to  be  for  many  a  day. ' ' 

Now,  the  obvious  question  was,  "Why,  she 
being  such  an  attractive  young  lady?"  But 
Furneaux  never  put  obvious  questions.  He 
turned  to  Winter  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
nothing  more  to  say.  His  colleague  was  evi- 
dently perplexed,  and  showed  it,  but  extricated 
the  others  from  an  awkward  situation  with  the 
tact  for  which  he  was  noted. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  candor 
in  supplying  such  a  clear  summary  of  the  fam- 
ily history,  Mr.  Fenley,"  he  said.  "Of  course, 
we  shall  be  meeting  you  frequently  during  the 
next  few  days,  and  developments  can  be  dis- 
cussed as  they  arise." 

His  manner,  more  than  his  words,  conveyed 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  85 

an  intimation  that  when  the  opportunity  served 
he  would  trounce  Furneaux  for  an  indiscretion. 
Fenley  was  mollified. 

"Command  me  in  every  way,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  one  more  question,  the  last  and 
the  gravest,"  said  Winter  seriously.  "Do  you 
suspect  any  one  of  committing  this  murder?" 

'  *  No !    On  my  soul  and  honor,  no ! " 

1 '  Thank  you,  sir.  We  '11  tackle  the  butler  now, 
if  you  please." 

"I'll  send  him,"  said  Fenley.  Probably  in 
nervous  forgetfulness,  he  lighted  a  cigarette 
and  went  out,  blowing  two  long  columns  of 
smoke  through  his  nostrils.  He  might,  or  might 
not,  have  been  pleased  had  he  heard  the  repri- 
manding of  Furneaux. 

1  *  Good  stroke,  that  about  the  stage,  Charles, ' ' 
mumbled  Winter.  Furneaux  threw  out  his 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"What  an  actor  the  man  is!"  he  almost 
hissed,  owing  to  the  need  there  was  of  subduing 
his  piping  voice  to  a  whisper.  "Every  word 
thought  out,  but  allowed  to  be  dragged  forth 
reluctantly.  Putting  brother  Bob  into  the  tu- 
reen, isn't  he?  'On  my  soul  and  honor,'  too! 
Don't  you  remember,  some  French  blighter  said 
that  when  an  innocent  man  was  being  made  a 
political  scapegoat?  .  .  .  Of  course,  the  mother 
is  a  Eurasian,  and  he  has  met  her.  A  nice  dish 
he  served  up !  A  salad  of  easily  ascertainable 
facts  with  a  dressing  of  lying  innuendo.  Name 


86  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

of  a  pipe !  If  Master  Hilton  hadn't  been  in  the 
house " 

A  knock,  and  the  door  opened. 

"You  want  me,  gentlemen,  I  am  informed  by 
Mr.  Hilton  Fenley,"  said  Tomlinson. 

There  spoke  the  butler,  discreet,  precise,  in- 
capable of  error.  Tomlinson  had  recovered  his 
breath  and  his  dignity.  He  was  in  his  own  do- 
main. The  very  sight  of  the  Mid- Victorian  fur- 
niture gave  him  confidence.  His  skilled  glano, 
traveled  to  the  decanter  and  the  empty  glass. 
He  knew  to  a  minim  how  much  brandy  had 
evaporated  since  his  last  survey  of  the  side- 
board. 

"Sit  down,  Tomlinson,"  said  Winter  pleas- 
antly. "You  must  have  been  dreadfully 
shocked  by  this  morning's  occurrence." 

Tomlinson  sat  down.  He  drew  the  chair 
somewhat  apart  from  the  table,  knowing  better 
than  to  place  his  elbows  on  that  sacred  spread 
of  polished  mahogany. 

"I  was,  sir,"  he  admitted.  "Indeed,  I  may 
say  I  shall  always  be  shocked  by  the  remem- 
brance of  it." 

"Mr.  Mortimer  Fenley  was  a  kindly  em- 
ployer?" 

"One  of  the  best,  sir.  He  liked  things  done 
just  so,  and  could  be  sharp  if  there  was  any 
laxity,  but  I  have  never  received  a  cross  word 
from  him." 

"Known  him  long?" 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  87 

"Ever  since  he  come  to  The  Towers;  nearly 
twenty  years." 

"And  Mrs.  Fenley?" 

"Mrs.  Fenley  leaves  the  household  entirely 
under  my  control,  sir.  She  never  interferes." 

"Why?" 

"She  is  an  invalid." 

"Is  she  so  ill  that  she  can  not  be  seen?" 

"Practically  that,  sir." 

"Been  so  for  twenty  years?" 

Tomlinson  coughed.  He  was  prepared  with 
an  ample  statement  as  to  the  catastrophe  which 
took  place  at  nine  thirty  A.  M.,  but  this  delving 
into  bygone  decades  was  unexpected  and  decid- 
edly distasteful,  it  would  seem. 

"Mrs.  Fenley  is  unhappily  addicted  to  the 
drug  habit,  sir,"  he  said  severely,  plainly  hint- 
ing that  there  were  bounds,  even  for  detectives. 

' '  I  fancied  so, ' '  was  the  dry  response.  '  *  How- 
ever, I  can  understand  and  honor  your  reluct- 
ance to  reveal  Mrs.  Fenley 's  failings.  Now, 
please  tell  us  exactly  what  Mr.  Fenley  and  Mr. 
Eobert  said  to  each  other  in  the  hall  last  Satur- 
day morning. ' ' 

How  poor  Farrow,  immured  in  his  jungle, 
would  have  gloated  over  Tomlinson 's  collapse 
when  he  heard  those  fatal  words !  To  his  credit 
be  it  said,  the  butler  had  not  breathed  a  word 
to  a  soul  concerning  the  scene  between  father 
and  son.  He  knew  nothing  of  an  inquisitive 
housemaid,  and  his  tortured  brain  fastened  on 


88  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Hilton  Fenley  as  the  Paul  Pry.  Unconsciously, 
he  felt  bitter  against  his  new  master  from  that 
moment. 

"Must  I  go  into  these  delicate  matters,  sir?" 
he  bleated. 

"Most  certainly.  The  man  whom  you  re- 
spected so  greatly  has  been  killed,  not  in  the 
course  of  a  heated  dispute,  but  as  the  outcome 
of  a  brutal  and  well-conceived  plan.  Bear  that 
in  mind,  and  you  will  see  that  concealment  of 
vital  facts  is  not  only  unwise  but  disloyal/' 

Winter  rather  let  himself  go  in  his  earnest- 
ness. He  flushed  slightly,  and  dared  not  look 
at  Furneaux  lest  he  should  encounter  an  admir- 
ing glance. 

The  butler,  however,  was  far  too  worried  to 
pay  heed  to  his  questioner's  florid  turn  of 
speech.  He  sighed  deeply.  He  felt  like  a  timid 
swimmer  in  a  choppy  sea,  knowing  he  was  out 
of  his  depth  yet  compelled  to  struggle  blindly. 

So,  with  broken  utterance,  he  repeated  the 
words  which  a  rabbit-eared  housemaid  had  car- 
ried to  Bates.  Nevertheless,  even  while  he  la- 
bored on,  he  fancied  that  the  detectives  did  not 
attach  such  weight  to  the  recital  as  he  feared. 
He  anticipated  that  Winter  would  write  each 
syllable  in  a  notebook,  and  show  an  exceeding 
gravity  of  appreciation.  To  his  great  relief, 
nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  Winter's  com- 
ment was  distinctly  helpful. 

"It  must  have  been  rather  disconcerting  for 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  89 

you  to  hear  father  and  son  quarreling  openly," 
he  said. 

"Sir,  it  was  most  unpleasant." 

"Now,  did  you  form  any  opinion  as  to  the 
cause  of  this  bickering?  For  instance,  did  you 
imagine  that  Mr.  Fenley  wished  his  son  to 
break  off  relations  with  an  undesirable  ac- 
quaintance!" 

"I  did,  sir." 

"Is  either  Mr.  Hilton  or  Mr.  Robert  engaged 
to  be  married?  Or,  I  had  better  put  it,  had 
their  father  expressed  any  views  as  to  either 
of  his  sons  marrying  suitably?" 

"We,  in  the  house,  sir,  had  a  notion  that 
Mr.  Fenley  would  like  Mr.  Robert  to  marry 
Miss  Sylvia." 

"Exactly.  I  expected  that.  Were  these  two 
young  people  of  the  same  way  of  thinking?" 

"They  were  friendly,  sir,  but  more  like 
brother  and  sister.  You  see,  they  were  reared 
together.  It  often  happens  that  way  when  a 
young  gentleman  and  young  lady  grow  up  from 
childhood  in  each  other 's  company.  They  never 
think  of  marriage,  whereas  the  same  young 
gentleman  would  probably  fall  head  over  heels 
in  love  with  the  same  young  lady  if  he  met  her 
elsewhere." 

"Good!"  broke  in  Furneaux.  "Tomlinson, 
do  you  drink  port?" 

The  butler  looked  his  astonishment,  but  an- 
swered readily  enough — 


90  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"My  favorite  wine,  sir." 

"I  thought  so.  Taken  in  moderation,  port 
induces  sound  reasoning.  I  have  some  Alto 
Douro  of  '61.  I'll  bring  you  a  bottle." 

Tomlinson  was  mystified,  a  trifle  scandalized 
perhaps ;  but  he  bowed  his  acknowledgments. 

"Sir,  I  will  appreciate  it  greatly." 

"I  know  you  will.  My  Alto  Douro  goes  down 
no  gullet  but  a  connoisseur's." 

Even   in  his   agitation,    Tomlinson   smiled. 

What  a  queer  little  man  this  undersized  de- 
tective was,  to  be  sure,  and  how  oddly  he  ex- 
pressed himself ! 

"I  ask  this  just  as  a  matter  of  form,  but  did 
Mr.  Robert  Fenley  take  his  .450  Express  rifle 
when  he  went  away  on  Saturday?"  said  Win- 
ter. 

"No,  sir.  He  had  only  a  valise  strapped  to 
the  carrier.  But  I  do  happen  to  know  that  the 
gun  was  in  his  room  on  Friday,  because  Friday 
is  my  day  for  house  inspection. ' ' 

"Any  cartridges?" 

"I  can't  say,  sir.  They  would  be  in  a  drawer, 
or,  more  likely,  in  the  gun  room." 

"Where  is  this  gun  room?" 

"Next  to  the  harness  room,  sir — second  door 
to  the  right  in  the  courtyard." 

' '  Speaking  absolutely  in  confidence,  have  you 
formed  a  theory  as  to  this  murder?" 

"No,  sir.  But  if  any  sort  of  evidence  is  piled 
np  against  Mr.  Eobert  I  shall  not  credit  it  No 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  91 

power  on  earth  could  make  me  believe  that  he 
would  kill  his  father  in  cold  blood.  He  re- 
spected his  father,  sir.  He's  a  bit  wild,  as  young 
men  with  too  much  money  are  apt  to  be,  but 
he  was  good-hearted  and  genuine." 

"Yet  he  did  speak  of  blowing  his  own  brains 
out,  and  his  father's." 

"That  was  his  silly  way  of  talking,  sir.  He 
would  say,  '  Tomlinson,  if  you  tell  the  pater 
what  time  I  came  home  last  night  I'll  stab  you 
to  the  heart. '  When  there  was  a  bit  of  a  family 
squabble  he  would  threaten  to  mix  a  gallon  of 
weed-killer  and  drink  every  drop.  Everything 
was  rotten,  or  beastly,  or  awfully  ripping.  He 
was  not  so  well  educated  as  he  ought  to  have 
been — Mrs.  Fenley's  fault  entirely;  and  he 
hadn't  the — the  words " 

"The  vocabulary." 

"That's  it,  sir.    I  see  you  understand." 

"Tomlinson,"  interrupted  Furneaux,  "a  fa- 
mous American  writer,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
described  adjectives  of  that  class  as  the  blank 
checks  of  intellectual  bankruptcy.  You  have 
hit  on  the  same  great  thought. ' ' 

The  butler  smiled  again.  He  was  beginning 
to  like  Furneaux. 

"You  have  never  heard,  I  suppose,  of  Mr. 
Fenley  receiving  any  threatening  letters!"  con- 
tinued Winter. 

"No,  sir.  Some  stupid  postcards  were  sent 
when  he  tried  to  close  a  right  of  way  through 


92  MORTIMER  FENLET 

the  park;  but  they  were  merely  ridiculous,  and 
that  occurred  years  ago." 

1  'So  you,  like  the  rest  of  us,  feel  utterly  un- 
able to  assign  a  motive  for  this  crime  ? ' ' 

"Sir,  it's  like  a  thunderbolt  from  a  clear 
sky." 

"Were  the  brothers,  or  half  brothers,  on  good 
terms  with  each  other?" 

Tomlinson  started  at  those  words,  "or  half 
brothers."  He  was  not  prepared  for  the  Sup- 
erintendent's close  acquaintance  with  the  Fen- 
ley  records. 

"They're  as  different  as  chalk  and  cheese, 
sir,"  he  said,  after  a  pause  to  collect  his  wits. 
"Mr.  Hilton  is  clever  and  well  read,  and  cares 
nothing  about  sport,  though  he  has  a  wonderful 
steady  nerve.  Yes,  I  mean  that "  for  Win- 
ter's prominent  eyes  showed  surprise  at  the 
statement.  "He's  a  strange  mixture,  is  Mr. 
Hilton.  He 's  a  fair  nailer  with  a  revolver.  I  've 
seen  him  hit  a  penny  three  times  straight  off  at 
twelve  paces,  and,  when  in  the  mind,  he  would 
bowl  over  running  rabbits  with  a  rook  rifle. 
Yet  he  never  joined  the  shooting  parties  in  Oc- 
tober. Said  it  made  him  ill  to  see  graceful  birds 
shattered  by  clumsy  folk.  All  the  same,  he 
would  ill-treat  a  horse  something  shameful. 
I " 

The  butler  bethought  himself,  and  pulled  up 
with  a  jerk.  But  Winter  smiled  encouragingly. 

'  *  Say  what  you  had  in  mind, ' '  he  said.   *  *  You 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  93 

are  not  giving  evidence.  You  may  rely  on  our 
discretion. ' ' 

"Well,  sir,  he's  that  sort  of  man  who  must 
have  his  own  way,  and  when  things  went  against 
him  at  home,  he  'd  take  it  out  of  any  servant  or 
animal  that  vexed  him  afterwards." 

4 'It  was  not  an  ideally  happy  household,  I 
take  it!" 

"Things  went  along  very  smoothly,  sir,  all 
things  considered.  They  have  been  rather  bet- 
ter since  Miss  Sylvia  came  home  from  Brussels. 
She  was  worried  about  Mrs.  Fenley  at  first,  but 
gave  it  up  as  a  bad  job;  and  Mr.  Fenley  and 
the  young  gentlemen  used  to  hide  their  differ- 
ences before  her.  That  was  why  Mr.  Fenley 
and  Mr.  Robert  blazed  up  in  the  hall  on  Satur- 
day. They  couldn't  say  a  word  in  front  of 
Miss  Sylvia  at  the  breakfast  table. ' ' 

"The  four  always  met  at  breakfast,  then?" 

"Almost  without  fail,  sir.  On  Monday  and 
Tuesday  mornings  Mr.  Hilton  breakfasted 
early,  and  his  father  was  joking  about  it,  for 
if  any  one  was  late  it  would  be  him — or  should 
I  say  'he',  sir!" 

Furneaux  cackled. 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  alter  your  speech  on 
any  account,"  he  grinned.  "Why  did  Mr.  Hil- 
ton turn  over  these  new  leaves  on  Monday  and 
Tuesday?" 

"He  said  he  had  work  to  do.  What  it  was 
I  don't  know,  sir.  But  he  managed  to  miss  the 


94  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

nine  forty-five,  and  Mr.  Fenley  was  vexed  about 
it.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  why  I  am  telling 
you  these  small  things.  Mr.  Hilton  might  be 
angry " 

Some  one  knocked.  Harris,  the  footman,  en- 
tered, a  scared  look  on  his  face. 

"Can  you  come  a  moment,  Mr.  Tomlinson?" 
he  said.  "The  undertaker  is  here  for  the 
body." 

"What  is  that?"  cried  Winter  sharply. 

The  butler  arose. 

"Didn't  Mr.  Hilton  mention  it,  sir?"  he  said. 
"Dr.  Stern  must  hold  a  post  mortem  before 
the  inquest,  and  he  suggested  that  it  could  be 
carried  through  more  easily  in  the  mortuary  at- 
tached to  the  Cottage  Hospital.  Isn't  that  all 
right,  sir?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  understand. 
Go,  by  all  means.  We '11  wait  here. " 

When  they  were  alone,  the  two  detectives 
remained  silent  for  a  long  minute.  Winter 
arose  and  looked  through  a  window  at  the  scene 
outside.  A  closed  hearse  had  arrived;  some 
men  were  carrying  in  a  rough  coffin  and  three 
trestles.  There  was  none  of  the  gorgeous  trap- 
pings which  lend  dignity  to  such  transits  in 
public.  Polished  oak  and  gleaming  brass  and 
rare  flowers  would  add  pageantry  later;  this 
was  the  livery  of  the  dissecting-room. 

"Queer  case!"  growled  Winter  over  his 
shoulder. 


'A  FAMILY  GATHERING  95 

"If  only  Hilton  had  breakfasted  early  this 
morning!"  said  Furneaux. 

"If  the  dog  hadn't  stopped  to  scratch  himself 
he  would  have  caught  the  hare,"  was  the  irrit- 
able answer. 

"Aren't  you  pleased  with  Tomlinson,  then?" 

"The  more  he  opened  up  the  more  puzzled  I 
became.  By  the  way,  you  hardly  asked  him  a 
thing,  though  you  were  keen  on  tackling  him 
yourself." 

"James,  I'm  an  artist.  You  handled  him  so 
neatly  that  I  stood  by  and  appreciated.  It 
would  be  mean  to  suggest  that  the  prospect  of 
a  bottle  of  Alto  Douro  quickened  his  imagina- 
tion. I " 

Winter's  hands  were  crossed  behind  his  back, 
and  his  fingers  worked  in  expressive  panto- 
mime. Furneaux  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant. 
Hilton  Fenley  was  standing  on  the  steps,  a  little 
below  and  to  the  left  of  the  window.  He  was 
gazing  with  a  curiously  set  stare  at  the  bust 
of  Police  Constable  Farrow  perched  high  among 
the  trees  to  the  right.  The  observers  in  the 
room  had  then  an  excellent  opportunity  to  study 
him  at  leisure. 

"More  of  Asia  than  of  Europe  in  that  face 
and  figure,"  murmured  Furneaux. 

"The  odd  thing  is  that  he  should  be  more 
interested  in  our  sentinel  than  in  the  dis- 
posal of  his  father's  body,"  commented 
Winter. 


96  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"A  live  donkey  is  always  more  valuable  than 
a  dead  lion. ' ' 

4 'We  shall  have  to  go  to  that  wood  soon, 
Charles. " 

"Your  only  failing  is  that  you  can't  see  the 
forest  for  the  trees." 

They  were  bickering,  an  ominous  sign  for 
some  one  yet  unknown.  Suddenly,  far  down 
the  avenue,  they  saw  a  motor  bicycle  traveling 
fast.  Hilton  Fenley  saw  it  at  the  same  moment 
and  screened  his  eyes  with  a  hand,  for  he  was 
bareheaded  and  the  sun  was  now  blazing  with 
noonday  intensity. 

11  Brother  Bob!"  hissed  Furneaux. 

Winter  thought  the  other  had  recognized  the 
man  crouched  over  the  handlebar. 

"Gee!"  he  said.  "Your  sight  must  be 
good." 

"I'm  not  using  eyes,  but  brains.  Who  else 
can  it  be?  This  is  the  psychological  moment 
which  never  fails.  Bet  you  a  new  hat  I'm 
right." 

"I'm  not  buying  you  any  new  hats,"  said 
Winter.  "Look  at  Hilton.  He  knows.  Now, 
I  wonder  if  the  other  one  telephoned.  No. 
He'd  have  told  us.  He'd  guess  it  would  crop 
up  in  talk  some  time  or  other.  Yes,  the  motor- 
ist is  waving  to  him.  There !  You  can  see  his 
face.  It  is  Robert,  isn't  it!" 

"0  sapient  one!"  snapped  Furneaux. 

The  meeting  between  the  brothers  was  ortho- 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  97 

dox  in  its  tragic  friendliness.  The  onlookers 
conld  supply  the  words  they  were  unable  to 
hear.  Robert  Fenley,  bigger,  heavier,  alto- 
gether more  British  in  build  and  semblance  than 
Hilton,  was  evidently  asking  breathlessly  if  the 
news  he  had  read  in  London  was  true,  and  Hil- 
ton was  volubly  explaining  what  had  happened, 
pointing  to  the  wood,  the  doorway,  the  hearse, 
emphasizing  with  many  gestures  the  painful 
story  he  had  to  tell. 

Then  the  two  young  men  mounted  the  steps, 
the  inference  being  that  Robert  Fenley  wished 
to  see  his  father 's  body  before  it  was  removed. 
A  pallor  was  spreading  beneath  the  glow  on  the 
younger  Fenley 's  perspiring  face.  He  was  ob- 
viously shocked  beyond  measure.  Grief  and 
horror  had  imparted  a  certain  strength  to 
somewhat  sullen  features.  He  might  be  a  ne  'er- 
do-well,  a  loose  liver,  a  good  deal  of  a  fool, 
perhaps,  but  he  was  learning  one  of  life's  sharp- 
est lessons ;  in  time,  it  might  bring  out  what  was 
best  in  his  character.  The  detectives  under- 
stood now  why  the  butler,  who  knew  the  boy 
even  better  than  his  own  father,  deemed  it  im- 
possible that  he  should  be  a  parricide.  Some 
men  are  constitutionally  incapable  of  commit- 
ting certain  crimes.  At  least,  the  public  thinks 
so;  Scotland  Yard  knows  better,  and  studies 
criminology  with  an  open  mind. 

The  brothers  had  hardly  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  the  house  when  an  eldritch  scream  rang 


98  MORTIMER  FENLET 

through  the  lofty  hall.  The  detectives  hastened 
from  the  dining-room,  and  forthwith  witnessed 
a  tableau  which  would  have  received  the  envi- 
ous approval  of  a  skilled  producer  of  melo- 
drama. The  hall  measured  some  thirty-five  feet 
square,  and  was  nearly  as  lofty,  its  ceiling 
forming  the  second  floor.  The  staircase  was 
on  the  right,  starting  from  curved  steps  in  the 
inner  right  angle  and  making  a  complete  turn 
from  a  half  landing  to  reach  a  gallery  which 
ran  around  three  sides  of  the  first  floor.  The 
fourth  contained  the  doorway,  with  a  window 
on  each  hand  and  four  windows  above. 

The  stairs  and  the  well  of  the  hall  were  of 
oak,  polished  as  to  parquet  and  steps,  but  left 
to  age  and  color  naturally  as  to  wainscot,  balus- 
ters and  rails.  The  walls  of  the  upper  floor 
were  decorated  in  shades  of  dull  gold  and  am- 
ber. The  general  effect  was  superb,  either  in 
daylight  or  when  a  great  Venetian  luster  in  the 
center  of  the  ceiling  blazed  with  electric  lights. 

The  body  of  the  unfortunate  banker  had  not 
been  removed  from  the  oaken  settee  at  the  back 
of  the  hall,  and  was  still  covered  with  a  white 
sheet.  An  enormously  stout  woman,  clothed  in 
a  dressing-gown  of  black  lace,  was  standing  in 
the  cross  gallery  and  resisting  the  gentle  efforts 
of  Sylvia  Manning,  now  attired  in  black,  to  take 
her  away.  The  stout  woman's  face  was  deathly 
white,  and  her  distended  eyes  were  gazing  dully 
at  the  ominous  figure  stretched  beneath.  Two 


A  FAMILY  GATHERING  99 

podgy  hands,  with  rings  gleaming  on  every 
finger,  were  clutching  the  carved  railing,  and 
the  tenacity  of  their  grip  caused  the  knuckles  to 
stand  out  in  white  spots  on  the  ivory-tinted 
skin. 

This,  then,  was  Mrs.  Fenley,  in  whom  some 
vague  stirring  of  the  spirit  had  induced  a  con- 
sciousness that  all  was  not  well  in  the  household 
with  which  she  " never  interfered." 

It  was  she  who  had  uttered  that  ringing 
shriek  when  some  flustered  maid  blurted  out 
that  "the  master"  was  dead,  and  her  dazed 
brain  had  realized  what  the  sheet  covered.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  from  that  terrifying  object  when 
her  son  entered  with  Hilton  Fenley. 

"Oh,  Bob!"  she  wailed.  "They've  killed 
your  father !  Why  did  you  let  them  do  it  I " 

Even  in  the  agony  of  the  moment  the  dis- 
traught young  man  was  aware  that  his  mother 
was  in  no  fit  state  to  appear  thus  openly. 

"Mother,"  he  said  roughly,  "you  oughtn't 
to  be  here,  you  know.  Do  go  to  your  room  with 
Sylvia.  I'll  come  soon,  and  explain  every- 
thing." 

"Explain!"  she  wailed.  "Explain  your 
father's  death!  Who  killed  him?  Tell  me  that, 
and  I'll  tear  them  with  my  nails.  But  is  he 
dead?  Did  that  hussy  lie  to  me?  You  all  tell 
me  lies  because  you  think  I  am  a  fool.  Let 
me  alone,  Sylvia.  I  will  go  to  my  husband.  Let 
me  alone,  or  I  '11  strike  you ! ' ' 


100  MORTIMER  FENLET 

By  sheer  weight  she  forced  herself  free  from 
the  girl's  hands,  and  tottered  down  the  stairs. 
At  the  half  landing  she  fell  to  her  knees,  and 
Sylvia  ran  to  pick  her  up.  Then  Hilton  Fenley 
seemed  to  arouse  himself  from  a  stupor.  Fling- 
ing a  command  at  the  servants,  he  rushed  to 
Sylvia's  assistance,  and,  helped  by  Tomlinson 
and  a  couple  of  footmen,  half  carried  the 
screaming  and  fighting  woman  up  the  stairs 
and  along  a  corridor. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Kobert  Fenley  was  left 
in  the  hall  with  the  dead  body  of  his  father. 
He  stood  stock  still,  and  seemed  to  follow  with 
disapproval  the  manner  of  the  disappearance  of 
the  poor  creature  whom  he  called  mother.  Her 
shrieks  redoubled  in  volume  as  she  understood 
that  she  would  not  be  allowed  to  see  her  hus- 
band's corpse,  and  her  son  added  to  the  uproar 
by  shouting  loudly: 

"Hi,  there !  Don't  ill-treat  her,  or  I'll  break 

all  your necks !  Confound  you,  be  gentle 

with  her!" 

He  listened  till  a  door  slammed,  and  a  sudden 
cessation  of  the  tumult  showed  that  some  one, 
in  sheer  self-defense,  had  given  her  morphia, 
the  only  sedative  that  could  have  any  real  effect. 
Then  he  turned,  and  became  aware  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  two  detectives. 

"Well,"  he  said  furiously,  "who  are  you,  and 
what  the  blazes  do  you  want  here?  Get  out, 
both  of  you,  or  I'll  have  you  chucked  out!" 


CHAPTEK  VI 

WHEREIN  FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  FROM 
LITERATURE  AND  ART 

THE  head  of  the  Criminal  Investigation  De- 
partment was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  accept 
meekly  whatsoever  coarse  commands  Robert 
Fenley  chose  to  fling  at  him.  He  met  the  new- 
comer 's  angry  stare  with  a  cold  and  steady  eye. 

"You  should  moderate  your  language  in  the 
presence  of  death,  Mr.  Fenley,"  he  said.  "We 
are  here  because  it  is  our  duty.  You,  on  your 
part,  would  have  acted  more  discreetly  had  you 
gone  to  your  mother's  assistance  instead  of 
swearing  at  those  who  were  acting  for  the  best 
under  trying  conditions." 

"Damn  your  eyes,  are  you  speaking  to  me?" 
came  the  wrathful  cry. 

' '  Surely  you  have  been  told  that  your  father 
is  lying  there  dead!"  went  on  Winter  sternly. 
"Mrs.  Fenley  might  have  yielded  readily  to 
your  persuasion,  but  your  help  took  the  form 
of  threatening  people  who  adopted  the  only 
other  course  possible.  Calm  yourself,  sir,  and 
try  to  remember  that  the  father  from  whom  you 
parted  in  anger  has  been  murdered.  My  col- 
league and  I  represent  Scotland  Yard ;  we  were 
101 


102  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

brought  here  by  your  brother.  See  that  you 
meet  us  in  the  dining-room  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Come,  Furneaux ! ' ' 

And,  stirred  for  once  to  a  feeling  of  deep 
annoyance,  the  big  man  strode  out  into  the  open 
air,  with  a  sublime  disregard  for  either  the 
anger  or  the  alarm  struggling  for  mastery  in 
Robert  Fenley's  sullen  face. 

"Phew!"  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath  be- 
fore descending  the  steps.  "What  an  unlicked 
cub!  And  they  wanted  to  marry  that  girl  to 
him!" 

"It  sha'n't  be  done,  James,"  said  Furneaux. 

' '  I  actually  lost  my  temper, ' '  puffed  the  other. 

"Tell  you  what!  Let's  put  the  Inspector  on 
to  him.  Tell  the  local  sleuths  half  what  we 
know,  and  they'll  run  him  in  like  a  shot." 

"Pooh!  He's  all  talk.  Tomlinson  is  right. 
The  neurotic  Hilton  has  more  nerve  in  his  little 
finger  than  that  dolt  in  the  whole  of  his  body." 

"What  did  you  think  of  his  boots?" 

"I  shall  be  surprised  if  they  don't  fit  those 
footprints  exactly." 

"They  will.  The  left  heel  is  evenly  worn, 
but  the  right  bears  on  the  outer  edge.  Let's 
cool  our  fevered  brows  under  the  greenwood 
tree  till  this  hearse  is  out  of  the  way. ' ' 

The  butler,  who  had  asked  the  undertaker's 
assistants  to  suspend  operations  when  Robert 
Fenley  arrived,  now  appeared  at  the  door  and 
signaled  the  men  that  they  were  free  to  proceed 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION   103 

with  their  work.  The  detectives  strolled  into 
the  wood,  and  soon  were  bending  over  some 
curious  blotchy  marks  which  somehow  sug- 
gested the  passage  of  a  pad-footed  animal 
rather  than  a  human  being.  Bates,  of  course, 
would  have  noted  them  had  he  not  been  on  the 
alert  for  footprints  alone,  but  they  had  stared 
at  Winter  and  Furneaux  from  the  instant  their 
regularity  became  apparent.  They  represented 
a  stride  considerably  shorter  than  the  average 
length  of  a  man's  pace,  and  were  strongly 
marked  when  the  surface  was  spongy  enough 
to  receive  an  impression.  Except,  however,  in 
the  slight  hollow  already  described,  the  ground 
was  so  dry  that  traces  of  every  sort  were  lost. 
In  the  vicinity  of  the  rock,  too,  the  only  marks 
left  were  the  scratches  in  the  moss  adhering  to 
the  steep  sides  of  the  bowlder  itself. 

"What  do  you  make  of  'em,  Charles?"  in- 
quired Winter,  when  both  had  puzzled  for  some 
minutes  over  the  uncommon  signs. 

"Some  one  has  thought  out  the  footprint  as 
a  clue  pretty  thoroughly,"  said  Furneaux. 
"He  not  only  took  care  to  leave  a  working  model 
of  one  set,  but  was  extremely  anxious  not  to 
provide  any  data  as  to  his  own  tootsies,  so  he 
fastened  a  bundle  of  rags  under  each  boot,  and 
walked  like  a  cat  on  walnut  shells. ' ' 

Winter  nodded. 

"When  we  find  the  gun,  too — it's  somewhere 
in  this  wood — you'll  see  that  the  fingerprints 


104  MORTIMER  FENLET 

won't  help,"  he  replied  thoughtfully.  "The 
man  who  remembered  to  safeguard  his  feet 
would  not  forget  his  hands.  We're  up  against 
a  tough  proposition,  young  f ellow-me-lad. " 

"Your  way  of  thinking  reminds  me  of  Her- 
bert Spencer's  reason  for  not  learning  Latin 
grammar  as  a  youth,"  grinned  Furneaux. 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  one  of  your  high- 
class  jokes;  so  what  was  the  reason?" 

"He  refused  to  accept  any  statement  unac- 
companied by  proof.  The  agreement  of  an  ad- 
jective with  its  noun  displeased  him,  because  an 
arbitrary  rule  merely  said  it  was  so." 

"An  ingenious  excuse  for  not  learning  a  les- 
son, but  I  don't  see " 

"Consider.  Mortimer  Fenley  was  shot  dead 
at  nine  thirty  this  morning,  and  the  bullet  which 
killed  him  came  from  the  neighborhood  of  the 
rock  above  our  heads.  One  shot  was  fired.  It 
was  so  certain,  so  true  of  aim,  that  the  murderer 
made  sure  of  hitting  him — at  a  fairly  long 
range,  too.  How  many  men  were  there  in  Eox- 
ton  and  Easton  this  morning — was  there  even 
one  woman? — capable  of  sighting  a  rifle  with 
such  calm  confidence  of  success?  Mind  you, 
Fenley  had  to  be  killed  dead.  No  bungling.  A 
severe  wound  from  which  he  might  recover 
would  not  meet  the  case  at  all.  Again,  how 
many  rifles  are  there  in  the  united  parishes  of 
Eoxton  and  Easton  of  the  type  which  fires  ex- 
panding bullets?" 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION   105 

"Of  course,  those  vital  facts  narrow  down 
the  field,  but  Hilton  Fenley  was  unquestionably 
in  the  house." 

Furneaux  cackled  shrilly. 

"You're  in  Herbert's  class,  Charles,"  he 
cried,  delighted  at  having  trapped  his  big 
friend. 

"Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  said  a  voice  from 
among  the  leaves,  "but  I  thought  you  might 
like  to  know  that  Mr.  Kobert  Fenley  is  starting 
off  again  on  his  motor  bike." 

Even  as  Police  Constable  Farrow  spoke  they 
heard  the  loud  snorting  of  an  exhaust,  marking 
the  initial  efforts  of  a  motor  bicycle's  engine 
to  get  under  way.  In  a  few  seconds  came  the 
rhythmic  beat  of  the  machine  as  it  gathered 
speed;  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  and 
laughed. 

"Master  Eobert  defies  the  majesty  of  the 
law, ' '  said  Winter  dryly.  '  *  Perhaps,  taking  one 
consideration  with  another,  it's  the  best  thing 
he  could  have  done. ' ' 

"He  is  almost  bound  to  enter  London  by  the 
Edgware  Road,"  said  Furneaux  instantly. 

"Just  so.  I  noticed  the  make  and  number 
of  his  machine.  A  plain-clothes  man  on  an 
ordinary  bicycle  can  follow  him  easily  from 
Brondesbury  onwards.  Time  him,  and  get  on 
the  telephone  while  I  keep  Hilton  in  talk.  If 
we're  mistaken  we'll  ring  up  Brondesbury 
again. ' ' 


106  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Winter  was  curtly  official  in  tone  when  Hil- 
ton Fenley  came  downstairs  at  his  request. 

"Why  did  your  brother  rush  off  in  such  an 
extraordinary  hurry?"  he  asked. 

"How  can  I  tell  you?"  was  the  reply,  given 
offhandedly,  as  if  the  matter  was  of  no  import- 
ance. "He  comes  and  goes  without  consulting 
my  wishes,  I  assure  you." 

"But  I  requested  him  to  meet  me  here  at  this 
very  hour.  There  are  questions  he  has  to  an- 
swer, and  it  would  have  been  best  in  his  own 
interests  had  he  not  shirked  them. ' ' 

"I  agree  with  you  fully.  I  hadn't  the  least 
notion  he  meant  going  until  I  looked  out  on 
hearing  the  bicycle,  and  saw  him  racing  down 
the  avenue." 

"Do  you  think,  sir,  he  is  making  for  Lon- 
don?" 

"I  suppose  so.  That  is  where  he  came  from. 
He  says  he  heard  of  his  father 's  death  through 
the  newspapers,  and  it  would  not  surprise  me 
in  the  least  if  I  did  not  see  him  again  until 
after  the  funeral. ' ' 

1 l  Thank  you,  sir.  I  'm  sorry  I  bothered  you, 
but  I  imagined  or  hoped  he  had  given  you  some 
explanation.  His  conduct  calls  for  it." 

The  Superintendent's  manner  had  gradually 
become  more  suave.  He  realized  that  these 
Fenleys  were  queer  folk.  Like  the  Pharisee, 
"they  were  not  as  other  men,"  but  whether 
the  difference  between  them  and  the  ordinary 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION   107 

mortal  arose  from  pride  or  folly  or  fear  it  was 
hard  to  say. 

Hilton  Fenley  smiled  wanly. 

"Bob  is  adopting  the  supposed  tactics  of  the 
ostrich  when  pursued, ' '  he  said. 

' '  But  no  one  is  pursuing  him. ' ' 

"I  am  speaking  metaphorically,  of  course. 
He  is  in  distress,  and  hides  behind  the  first  bush. 
He  has  no  moral  force — never  had.  Physically 
he  doesn't  know  what  fear  is,  but  the  specters 
of  the  mind  loom  large  in  his  eyes.  And  now, 
Superintendent,  I  am  just  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing for  London.  I  shall  return  about  six  thirty. 
Do  you  remain?" 

"No,  sir.  I  shall  return  to  town  almost  im- 
mediately. Mr.  Furneaux  will  stop  here.  Can 
he  have  a  bedroom  in  the  house!" 

"Certainly.  Tomlinson  will  look  after  him. 
You  are  not  going  cityward,  I  suppose! " 

"No,  sir.  But  if  you  care  to  have  a  seat  in 
my  car " 

"No,  thanks.  The  train  is  quicker  and  takes 
me  direct  to  London  Bridge.  Much  obliged. ' ' 

Fenley  hurried  to  the  cloakroom,  which  was 
situated  under  the  stairs,  but  on  a  lower  level 
than  the  hall.  The  telephone  box  was  placed 
there,  and  Furneaux  emerged  as  the  other  ran 
down  a  few  steps.  The  little  man  hailed  him 
cheerfully. 

"I  suppose,  now,"  he  said,  "that  hot  headed 
brother  of  yours  thinks  he  has  dodged  Scotland 


108  MORTIMER  FENLET 

Yard  till  it  suits  his  convenience  to  be  inter- 
viewed. Strange  how  people  insist  on  regard- 
ing us  as  novices  in  our  own  particular  line. 
Now  you  wouldn't  make  that  mistake,  sir." 

"What  mistake!  I  wouldn't  ma  away,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,  sir.  But  Mr.  Eobert  has 
committed  the  additional  folly,  from  his  point 
of  view,  of  letting  us  know  why  he  was  so  des- 
perately anxious  to  get  back  to  London.'* 

"But  he  didn't  say  a  word!" 

"Ah,  words,  idle  words ! 

Words  are  like  leaves;  and  where  they  most  abound 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 

It  is  actions  that  count,  sir.  Deeds,  not 
words.  Now,  Mr.  Eobert  has  been  kind  enough 
to  give  us  the  eloquent  facts,  because  he  will  be 
followed  from  the  suburbs  and  his  whereabouts 
watched  most  carefully." 

"Dear  me!  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said 
Hilton  Fenley  slowly.  Two  ideas  were  prob- 
ably warring  in  his  brain  at  that  moment.  One 
classed  Furneaux  as  a  garrulous  idiot;  the 
other  suggested  that  there  might  be  method  in 
such  folly. 

"That's  a  clever  simile  of  Pope's  about  dense 
leaves  betokening  scarcity  of  fruit,"  went  on 
Furneaux.  "Of  course,  it  might  be  pushed  too 
far.  Think  what  a  poisonous  Dead  Sea  applfc 
ihe  Quarry  Wood  contained.  Your  father's 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION   109 

murder  might  not  have  been  possible  today  but 
for  the  cover  given  by  the  trees." 

Fenley  selected  a  dark  overcoat  and  derby 
hat.  He  wore  a  black  tie,  but  had  made  no 
other  change  in  his  costume. 

"You  are  quite  a  literary  detective,  Mr.  Fur- 
neaux, ' '  he  commented. 

"More  literal  than  literary,  sir.  I  have  little 
leisure  for  reading,  but  I  own  an  excellent  mem- 
ory. Nothing  to  boast  of  in  that.  It's  indis- 
pensable in  my  profession. ' ' 

"Obviously.  Well,  I  must  hurry  away  now. 
See  you  later." 

He  hastened  out.  His  manner  seemed  to  hint 
an  annoyance ;  it  conveyed  indefinitely  but  sub- 
tly a  suggestion  that  his  father's  death  was  far 
too  serious  a  thing  to  be  treated  with  such  levity. 

Furneaux  sauntered  slowly  to  the  front  door. 
By  that  time  the  Fenley  car  was  speeding 
rapidly  down  the  avenue. 

"With  luck,"  he  said  to  Winter,  who  had 
joined  him,  "with  any  sort  of  luck  both  brothers 
should  pass  their  father's  body  on  the  way  to 
the  mortuary.  Sometimes,  0  worthy  chief,  I 
find  myself  regretting  the  ways  and  means  of 
the  days  of  old,  when  men  believed  in  the 
Judicium  Dei. 

"Neither  of  those  sons  went  near  his  dead 
father.  If  one  of  them  had  dared  I  wonder 
whether  the  blood  would  have  liquefied.  Do  you 
remember,  in  the  '  Nibelungenlied, '  that  Hagen 


110  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

is  forced  to  prove  his  innocence  by  touching 
Siegfried's  corpse — and  fails?  That  is  the 
point — he  fails.  Our  own  Shakespeare  knew 
the  dodge.  When  Henry  VI  was  being  borne 
to  Chertsey  in  an  open  coffin,  the  Lady  Anne 
made  Gloster  squirm  by  her  cry: 

O  gentlemen,  see,  see!     Dead  Henry's  wounds 
Open  their  congeal'd  mouths,  and  bleed  afresh. 

Why  then  did  those  sons  fight  shy  of  touch- 
ing their  father's  body?  Had  it  been  your 
father  or  mine  who  was  beaten  down  by  a  mur- 
derer's spite,  we  would  surely  have  given  him 
one  fare-well  clasp  of  the  hand." 

Winter  recognized  the  symptoms.  His  di- 
minutive friend  was  examining  the  embryo  of 
a  theory  already  established  in  his  mind.  It 
was  a  mere  shadow,  something  vague  and  dark 
and  uncertain  in  outline.  But  it  existed,  and 
would  assume  recognizable  shape  when  an  ac- 
tive imagination  had  fitted  some  shreds  of  proof 
to  that  which  was  yet  without  form  and  void. 
At  that  crisis,  contradiction  was  a  tonic. 

"I  think  you're  in  error  in  one  respect,"  said 
Winter  quietly.  "  Hilton  Fenley  went  to  his 
father's  assistance,  and  we  don't  know  whether 
or  not  Robert  did  not  approach  the  body." 

"You're  wrong,  most  sapient  one.  Before 
telephoning  Brondesbury  I  asked  Harris  to  tell 
me  exactly  what  happened  after  the  banker 
dropped  at  his  feet.  Harris  shouted  and  knelt 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  111 

over  him.  Miss  Manning  ran  and  lifted  his 
head.  Tomlinson,  Harris  and  Brodie  carried 
him  to  the  settee.  Hilton  Fenley  never  touched 
him." 

"What  of  Robert?  We  cleared  out,  leaving 
him  there  alone." 

"I  watched  him  until  the  undertaker's  men 
were  called  back.  Up  to  that  time  he  hadn't; 
moved.  Bet  you  a  new  hat  the  men  will  tell 
you  he  never  went  nearer. ' ' 

"You  buy  your  own  new  hats,"  said  Winter. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  stand  you  two  a  day?  I'm 
off  to  the  Yard.  I'll  look  up  two  lines  in  town. 
'Phone  through  if  you  want  help  and  I'll  come. 
You  sleep  here  tonight  if  you  care  to.  Tomlin- 
son will  provide.  How  about  the  wood?" 

"Leave  it." 

"You'll  see  that  artist,  Trenholme?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  bedrooms?" 

"Going  there  now." 

"So  long!  Sorry  I  must  quit,  but  I'm  keen 
to  clear  up  that  telephone  call." 

"If  you're  in  the  office  about  six  I'll  tell  you 
the  whole  story. ' ' 

"Charles,"  said  Winter  earnestly,  placing  a 
hand  on  his  colleague's  shoulder,  "we  gain 
nothing  by  rushing  our  fences.  This  is  the 
toughest  job  we've  handled  this  year;  there's  a 
hard  road  to  travel  before  we  sit  down  and  pre- 
pare a  brief  for  counsel." 


112  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Of  course,  I  meant  the  story  up  to  the  six 
o  'clock  instalment. ' ' 

Winter  smiled.  He  sprang  into  the  car,  the 
chauffeur  having  already  started  the  engine  in 
obedience  to  a  word  from  the  Superintendent. 

"Stop  at  the  Brondesbury  police  station," 
was  the  order,  and  Furneaux  was  left  alone. 
He  reentered  the  house  and  crooked  a  finger  at 
the  butler,  who  had  not  summoned  up  courage  to 
retire  to  his  own  sanctum,  though  a  midday 
meal  was  awaiting  him. 

"Take  me  upstairs,"  said  the  detective.  "I 
shall  not  detain  you  many  minutes.  Then  you 
and  I  will  have  a  snack  together  and  you'll  bor- 
row a  bicycle  for  me,  and  I  sha'n't  trouble  you 
any  more  till  a  late  hour. ' ' 

"No  trouble  at  all,  sir,"  Tomlinson  assured 
him.  "If  I  could  advance  your  inquiry  in  the 
least  degree  I'd  fast  cheerfully  all  day." 

"What  I  like  about  you,  Tomlinson,  is  your 
restraint,"  said  Furneaux.  "Many  a  man 
would  have  offered  to  fast  a  week,  not  meaning 
to  deny  himself  a  toothful  five  minutes  longer 
than  was  avoidable.  Now  you  really  mean  what 

you  say Ah,  this  is  Mr.  Robert's  den. 

And  that  is  his  bedroom,  with  dressing-room 
adjoining.  Very  cozy,  to  be  sure.  Of  course, 
the  rooms  have  been  dusted  regularly  since  he 
disappeared  on  Saturday?" 

"Every  day,  sir." 

"Well,  I  hate  prying  into  people's  rooms. 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  113 

Beastly  liberty,  I  call  it.  Now  for  Mr.  Hil- 
ton's." 

"Is  that  all,  sir?"  inquired  the  butler,  mani- 
festly surprised  by  the  cursory  glance  which 
the  detective  had  given  around  the  suite  of 
apartments. 

1 1  All  at  present,  thank  you.  Like  the  Danites ' 
messengers,  I'm  only  spying  out  the  lie  of  the 
land.  Ah,  each  brother  occupied  a  corner  of 
the  east  wing.  Eobert,  north,  Hilton,  south — 
a  most  equitable  arrangement.  Now  these 
rooms  show  signs  of  tenancy,  eht" 

They  were  standing  in  Hilton  Fenley's  sit- 
ting-room, having  traversed  the  whole  of  the 
gallery  around  the  hall  to  reach  it.  The  re- 
mains of  a  fire  in  the  grate  caught  Furneaux's 
eye,  and  the  butler  coughed  apologetically. 

"Mr.  Hilton  won't  have  his  rooms  touched, 
sir,  until  he  leaves  home  of  a  morning,"  he 
said.  "He  likes  to  find  his  papers,  et  cetera, 
where  he  put  them  overnight.  As  a  rule  the 
housemaid  comes  here  soon  after  breakfast,  but 
this  morning — naturally " 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  assented  the  other 
promptly.  * '  Everything  is  at  sixes  and  sevens. 
Would  you  mind  sending  the  girl  here?  I'd 
like  to  have  a  word  with  her. ' ' 

Tomlinson  moved  ponderously  towards  an 
electric  bell. 

"No,"  said  Furneaux.  "Don't  ring.  Just 
ask  her  to  come.  Then  she  can  bring  me  to 


114  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

your  place  and  we'll  nibble  something.  Mean- 
while I'll  enjoy  this  view." 

"  Certainly,  sir.  That  will  suit  me  admir- 
ably." 

Tomlinson  walked  out  with  stately  tread. 
His  broad  back  was  scarcely  turned  before  the 
detective's  nimble  feet  had  carried  him  into 
the  bedroom,  which  stood  in  the  southeast  angle. 
He  seemed  to  fly  around  the  room  like  one  pos- 
sessed of  a  fiend  of  unrest.  Picking  up  a  glass 
tumbler,  he  sniffed  it  and  put  it  in  a  pocket. 
He  peered  at  the  bed,  the  dressing-table,  the 
carpet;  opened  drawers  and  wardrobe  doors, 
examined  towels  in  the  bathroom,  and  stuffed 
one  beneath  his  waistcoat. 

Kunning  back  to  the  sitting-room,  he  found 
a  torn  envelope,  and  began  picking  up  some 
specks  of  grit  from  the  carpet,  each  of  which 
went  into  a  corner  of  the  envelope,  which  he 
folded  and  stowed  away.  Then  he  bent  over 
the  fireplace  and  rummaged  among  the  cinders. 
Three  calcined  lumps,  not  wholly  consumed,  ap- 
peared to  interest  him.  A  newspaper  was 
handy;  he  wrapped  the  grimy  treasure  trove  in 
a  sheet,  and  that  small  parcel  also  went  into  a 
pocket. 

When  a  swish  of  skirts  on  the  stairs  an- 
nounced the  housemaid  he  retreated  to  the  bed- 
room, and  the  girl  found  him  standing  at  a  south 
window,  gazing  out  over  the  fair  vista  of  the 
Italian  terraces  and  the  rolling  parkland. 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  115 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  girl  timidly. 

He  turned,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  her  ap- 
proach. She  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  red, 
for  the  feminine  portion  of  the  household  was 
in  a  state  of  collapse. 

"I  only  wanted  to  ask  why  a  fire  is  laid  in 
the  sitting-room  in  such  fine  weather,"  he 
said. 

"Mr.  Hilton  sits  up  late,  sir,  and  if  the  eve- 
ning is  at  all  chilly,  he  puts  a  match  to  the  grate 
himself." 

"Ah,  a  silly  question.  Don't  tell  anybody  I 
spoke  of  it  or  they'll  think  me  a  funny  detective, 
won't  they!" 

He  smiled  genially,  and  the  girl's  face 
brightened. 

"I  don't  see  that,  sir,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  why  Mr.  Hilton  wanted  a  fire  last  night. 
It  was  quite  hot.  I  slept  with  my  window  wide 
open. ' ' 

"A  very  healthy  habit,  too.  Do  you  attend 
to  Mr.  Robert's  suite?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Does  he  have  a  fire!" 

"Never  in  the  summer,  sir." 

"He's  a  warmer-blooded  creature  than  Mr. 
Hilton,  I  fancy." 

"I  expect  so,  sir." 

"Well,  now,  there's  nothing  here.  But  we 
detectives  have  to  nose  around  everywhere. 
I'm  sure  you  are  terribly  upset  by  your  mas- 


116  MORTIMER  FENLET 

ter's  death.  Everybody  gives  him  a  good 
word. ' ' 

"  Indeed,  he  deserved  it,  sir.  We  all  liked 
him.  He  was  strict  but  very  generous." 

Furneaux  chatted  with  her  while  they  de- 
scended the  stairs  and  traversed  devious  pas- 
sages till  the  butler's  room  was  gained.  By 
that  time  the  housemaid  was  convinced  that  Mr. 
Furneaux  was  "a  very  nice  man."  When  she 
"did"  Hilton  Fenley's  rooms  she  missed  the 
glass,  but  gave  no  heed  to  its  absence.  Who 
would. bother  about  a  glass  in  a  house  where 
murder  had  been  done?  She  simply  replaced 
it  by  another  of  the  same  pattern. 

"May  I  inquire,  sir,"  said  Tomlinson,  when 
Furneaux  had  washed  face  and  hands  and  was 
seated  at  a  table  laid  for  two,  "may  I  inquire 
if  you  have  any  preference  as  to  a  luncheon 
wine  ? ' ' 

"I  think,"  said  Furneaux  with  due  solemnity, 
"that  a  still  wine " 

"I  agree  with  you,  sir.  At  this  time  of  the 
day  a  Sauterne  or  a  Johannisberger " 

"To  my  taste,  a  Chateau  Yquem,  with  that 
delicate  flavor  which  leaves  the  palate  fresh — 
Frenchmen  call  it  the  seve " 

"Sir,  I  perceive  that  you  have  a  taste. 
Singularly  enough,  I  have  a  bottle  of  Chateau 
Yquem  in  my  sideboard." 

So  the  meal  was  a  success. 

An  under  gardener  lent  Furneaux  a  bicycle. 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  117 

After  a  chat  with  Farrow,  to  whom  he  conveyed 
some  sandwiches  and  a  bottle  of  beer,  the  de- 
tective rode  to  Easton.  He  sent  a  rather  long 
telegram  to  his  own  quarters,  called  at  a  chem- 
ist's, and  reached  the  White  Horse  at  Boxton 
about  two  o'clock. 

Now  the  imp  of  mischance  had  contrived  that 
John  Trenholme  should  hear  no  word  of  the 
murder  until  he  came  downstairs  for  luncheon 
after  a  morning's  steady  work. 

The  stout  Eliza,  fearful  lest  Mary  should 
forestall  her  with  the  news,  bounced  out  from 
the  kitchen  when  his  step  sounded  on  the  stairs. 

"There  was  fine  goin's  on  in  the  park  this 
morning,  Mr.  Trenholme,"  she  began  breath- 
lessly. 

He  reddened  at  once,  and  avoided  her  fiery 
eye.  Of  course,  it  had  been  discovered  that  he 
had  watched  that  girl  bathing.  Dash  it  all,  his 
action  was  unintentional!  What  a  bore! 

"Mr.  Fenley  was  shot  dead  on  his  own  door- 
step," continued  Eliza.  She  gave  proper  em- 
phasis to  the  concluding  words.  That  a  man 
should  be  murdered  "on  his  own  doorstep"  was 
a  feature  of  the  crime  that  enhanced  the  tragedy 
in  the  public  mind.  The  shooting  was  bad 
enough  in  itself,  for  rural  England  is  happily 
free  from  such  horrors;  but  swift  and  brutal 
death  dealt  out  on  one's  own  doorstep  was  a 
thing  at  once  monstrous  and  awe-compelling. 


118  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Eliza,  perhaps,  wondered  why  Mr.  Trenholme 
flushed,  but  she  fully  understood  the  sudden 
blanching  of  his  face  at  her  tidings,  for  all 
Roxton  was  shaken  to  its  foundations  when  the 
facts  slowly  percolated  in  that  direction. 

' « Good  Lord ! ' '  cried  he.  ' '  Could  that  be  the 
shot  I  heard?" 

"He  was  killed  at  half  past  nine,  sir." 

"Then  it  was!  A  keeper  heard  it,  too — and 
a  policeman — our  Eoxton  policeman." 

"That  would  be  Farrow,"  said  Eliza. 
"What  was  he  doin',  the  lazy-bones,  that  he 
couldn't  catch  the  villain!" 

"What  villain?" 

"The  man  who  killed  poor  Mr.  Fenley." 

"They  know  who  did  it,  then?" 

"Well,  no.  There's  all  sorts  o'  tales  flyin' 
about,  but  you  can't  believe  any  of  'em." 

"But  why  are  you  blaming  Farrow?  He's 
a  good  fellow.  He  sings.  No  real  scoundrel 
can  sing.  Read  any  novel,  any  newspaper  re- 
port. 'The  prisoner's  voice  was  harsh  and  un- 
musical.' You've  seen  those  words  scores  of 
times." 

In  his  relief  at  learning  that  his  own  escapade 
was  not  published  broadcast,  Trenholme  had 
momentarily  forgotten  the  dreadful  nature  of 
Eliza's  statement.  She  followed  him  into  the 
dining-room. 

"You'll  be  a  witness,  I  suppose,"  she  said, 
anxious  to  secure  details  of  the  shot-firing. 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  119 

"A  witness!"  he  repeated  blankly. 

"Yes,  sir.  There  can't  be  a  deal  o'  folk 
who  heard  the  gun  go  off. ' ' 

"By  Jove,  Eliza,  I  believe  you're  right,"  he 
said,  gazing  at  her  in  dismay.  "Now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  am  probably  the  only  per- 
son in  existence  who  can  say  where  that  shot 
came  from.  It  was  a  rifle,  too.  I  spoke  of  it 
to  the  keeper  and  Farrow. ' ' 

"I  was  sure  something  would  happen  when 
I  dreamed  of  suffrigettes  this  mornin'.  An' 
that  comes  of  playin'  pranks,  Mr.  Trenholme. 
If  it  wasn't  for  that  alarm  clock " 

"Oh,  come,  Eliza,"  he  broke  in.  "An  alarm 
clock  isn't  a  Gatling  gun.  Your  association  of 
ideas  is  faulty.  There  is  much  in  common  be- 
tween the  clatter  of  an  alarm  clock  and  the 
suffragist  cause,  but  all  the  ladies  promised  not 
to  endanger  life,  you  know." 

"Anyhow,  Mr.  Fenley  is  dead  as  a  doornail," 
said  Eliza  firmly. 

"Too  bad.  I  take  back  all  the  hard  things  I 
said  about  him,  and  I'm  sure  you  do  the  same." 

"Me!" 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  say  all  the  Fenleys  were 
rubbish  ?  One  of  them,  at  any  rate,  was  wrongly 
classified. ' ' 

"Which  one!" 

Trenholme  bethought  himself  in  time. 

"This  unfortunate  banker,  of  course,"  he 
said. 


120  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"I'd  a  notion  you  meant  Miss  Sylvia.  She's 
pretty  as  a  picter — prettier  than  some  picters 
I've  seen — and  folk  speak  well  of  her.  But 
she's  not  a  Fenley." 

At  any  other  time  the  artist  would  have  re- 
ceived that  thrust  en  tierce  with  a  riposte;  at 
present,  Eliza's  facts  were  more  interesting 
than  her  wit. 

"Who  is  the  lady  you  are  speaking  of?"  he 
asked  guardedly. 

"Mr.  Fenley's  ward,  Miss  Sylvia  Manning. 
They  say  she's  rich.  Pore  young  thing !  Some 
schemin'  man  will  turn  her  head,  I'll  go  bail, 
an'  all  for  the  sake  of  her  brass." 

"Most  likely  a  one-legged  gunner,  name  of 
Jim." 

"Well,  it  won't  be  a  two-legged  painter,  name 
of  Jack!"  And  Eliza  bounced  out. 

Now,  Mary  of  the  curl  papers,  having  occa- 
sion to  go  upstairs  while  Trenholme  was  eating, 
peeped  through  the  open  door  of  the  room  which 
he  had  converted  into  a  studio.  She  saw  a  pic- 
ture on  the  easel,  and  the  insatiable  curiosity 
of  her  class  led  her  to  examine  it.  Even  a 
country  kitchen  maid  came  under  its  spell  in- 
siantly.  After  a  pause  of  mingled  admiration 
and  shocked  prudery,  she  sped  to  the  kitchen. 

"Seein'  is  believin',"  quoted  Eliza,  mounting 
the  stairs  in  her  turn.  She  gazed  at  the  draw- 
ing brazenly,  with  hands  resting  on  hips  and 
head  cocked  sidewise  like  an  inquisitive  hen's. 


FURNEAUX  SEEKS  INSPIRATION  121 

"Well,  I  never  did!"  was  her  verdict. 

Back  in  the  kitchen  again,  she  announced 
firmly  to  Mary — 

"I'll  take  in  the  cheese." 

She  put  the  Stilton  on  the  table  with  a  de- 
termined air. 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  Miss  Sylvia 
Manning,  don't  you!"  she  said,  with  calm  guile. 

"Never  heard  the  lady's  name  before  you 
mentioned  it,"  said  Trenholme. 

"Mebbe  not,  but  it  strikes  me  you've  seen 
more  of  her  than  most  folk. ' ' 

"Eliza,"  he  cried,  without  any  pretense  at 
smiling  good  humor,  "you've  been  sneaking!" 

"Sneakin',  you  call  it?  I  'appened  to  pass 
your  room,  an'  who  could  help  lookin'  in  I  I 
was  never  so  taken  aback  in  me  life.  You  could 
ha'  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather." 

"An  ostrich  feather  with  an  ostrich's  leg  be- 
hind it,"  was  the  angry  retort. 

Eliza's  eyes  glinted  with  the  fire  of  battle. 

"The  shameless  ways  of  girls  nowadays!" 
she  breathed.  *  *  To  let  any  young  man  gaze  at 
her  in  them  sort  of  clothes,  if  you  can  call  'em 
clothes!" 

"It  was  an  accident.  She  didn't  know  I  was 
there.  Anyhow,  you  dare  utter  another  word 
about  that  picture,  even  hint  at  its  existence, 
and  I'll  paint  you  without  any  clothes  at  all. 
I  mean  that,  so  beware ! ' ' 

"Sorry  to  interrupt,"   said  a  high-pitched 


122  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

voice  from  the  doorway.  "You  are  Mr.  John 
Trenholme,  I  take  it?  May  I  come  in!  My 
name's  Furneaux." 

"Jim,  of  the  Koyal  Artillery?"  demanded 
Trenholme  angrily. 

"No.    Charles  Francois,  of  Scotland  Yard." 

Eliza  fled,  completely  cowed.  She  began  to 
weep,  in  noisy  gulps. 

"I've  dud-dud-done  it!"  she  explained  to  agi- 
tated curl  papers.  "That  pup-pup-pore  Mr. 
Trenholme.  They've  cuc-cuc-come  for  him. 
He'll  be  lul-lul-locked  up,  an'  all  along  o'  my 
wu-wu-wicked  tongue !" 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOME  SIDE  ISSUES 

TBENHOLME,  rather  interested  than  otherwise, 
did  not  blanch  at  mention  of  Scotland  Yard. 

"Walk  right  in,  Mr.  Furneaux,"  he  said;  he 
had  picked  up  a  few  tricks  of  speech  from 
Transatlantic  brethren  of  the  brush  met  at 
Julien  's.  *  *  Have  you  lunched ! ' ' 

"Excellently,"  was  the  reply. 

"Not  in  Eoxton.  I  defy  you  to  produce  a 
cook  in  this  village  that  shall  compare  with  our 
Eliza  of  the  White  Horse." 

"Sir,  my  thoughts  do  not  dwell  on  viands. 
True,  I  ate  with  a  butler,  but  I  drank  wine  with 
a  connoisseur.  It  was  a  Chateau  Yquem  of  the 
eighties." 

"Then  you  should  be  in  expansive  mood. 
Before  you  demand  with  a  scowl  why  I  shot 
Mr.  Fenley  you  might  tell  me  why  the  head- 
quarters of  the  London  Police  is  named  Scot- 
land Yard." 

"Because  it  was  first  housed  in  a  street  of 
that  name  near  Trafalgar  Square.  Scotland 
Yard  was  a  palace  at  one  time,  built  in  a  spirit 
of  mistaken  hospitality  for  the  reception  of 
prominent  Scots  visiting  London.  We  enter- 

128 


124  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

tained  so  many  and  so  lavishly  that  'Gang 
Sooth'  has  become  a  proverb  beyond  the 
Tweed." 

11  There  is  virtue,  I  perceive,  in  a  bottle  of 
Chateau  Yquem — or  was  it  two?" 

"In  one  there  is  light,  but  two  might  produce 
fireworks.  Now,  sir,  if  you  have  finished  lunch- 
eon, kindly  take  me  to  your  room  and  show  me 
the  sketches  you  made  this  morning. ' ' 

The  artist  raised  an  inquiring  eyebrow. 

"I  have  the  highest  respect  for  your  profes- 
sion in  the  abstract,  but  it  is  new  to  find  it  dab- 
bling in  art  criticism, ' '  he  said. 

1 '  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Trenholme,  that  any  draw- 
ings of  yours  made  in  the  neighborhood  of  The 
Towers  before  half  past  nine  o'clock  today  will 
be  most  valuable  pieces  of  evidence — if  nothing 
more. ' ' 

Though  Furneaux's  manner  was  grave  as  an 
owl's,  a  certain  gleam  in  his  eye  gave  the  requi- 
site sting  to  the  concluding  words.  Trenholme, 
at  any  other  time,  would  have  delighted  in  him, 
but  dropped  his  bantering  air  forthwith. 

"I  don't  mind  exhibiting  my  work,"  he  said. 
"It  will  not  be  a  novel  experience.  Come  this 
way." 

Watched  by  two  awe-stricken  women  from 
the  passage  leading  to  the  kitchen,  the  artist 
and  his  visitor  ascended  the  stairs.  Trenholme 
walked  straight  to  the  easel,  took  off  the  draw- 
ing of  Sylvia  Manning  and  the  Aphrodite, 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  125 

placed  it  on  the  floor  face  to  the  wall,  and  staged 
the  sketch  of  the  Elizabethan  house.  Furneaux 
screwed  his  eyelids  to  secure  a  half  light ;  then, 
making  a  cylinder  of  his  right  hand,  peered 
through  it  with  one  eye. 

"Admirable!"  he  said.  "Corot,  with  some 
of  the  breadth  of  Constable.  Forgive  the  com- 
parisons, Mr.  Trenholme.  Of  course,  the  style 
is  your  own,  but  one  uses  the  names  of  ac- 
cepted masters  largely  as  adjectives  to  explain 
one's  meaning.  You  are  a  true  impressionist. 
You  paint  Nature  as  you  see  her,  not  as  she  is, 
yet  your  technique  is  superb  and  your  observa- 
tion just.  For  instance,  every  shadow  in  this 
lovely  drawing  shows  that  the  hour  was  about 
eight  o'clock.  But,  in  painting  figures,  I  have 
no  doubt  you  sink  the  impressionist  in  the  rea- 
list. .  .  .  The  other  sketch,  please." 

"The  other  sketch  is  a  mere  color  note  for 
future  guidance,"  said  Trenholme  offhandedly. 

"It  happens  also  to  be  a  recognizable  portrait 
of  Miss  Sylvia  Manning.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  must 
see  it." 

"Suppose  I  refuse?" 

"It  will  be  obtained  by  other  methods  than  a 
polite  request. ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  run  the  risk." 

"No,  you  won't."  And  the  detective's  tone 
became  eminently  friendly.  "You'll  just  pro- 
duce it  within  the  next  half  minute.  You  are 
not  the  sort  of  man  who  would  care  to  drag  a 


126  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

lady's  name  into  a  police-court  wrangle,  which 
can  be  the  only  outcome  of  present  stubborn- 
ness on  your  part.  I  know  you  were  hidden 
among  those  cedars  between,  say,  eight  o'clock 
and  half  past  nine.  I  know  that  Miss  Manning 
bathed  in  a  lake  well  within  your  view.  I  know, 
too,  that  you  sketched  her,  because  I  saw  the 
canvas  a  moment  ago — an  oil,  not  a  water  color. 
These  things  may  or  may  not  be  relevant  to  an 
inquiry  into  a  crime,  but  they  will  certainly 
loom  large  in  the  public  mind  if  the  police  have 
to  explain  why  they  needed  a  warrant  to  search 
your  apartments." 

Furneaux  had  gauged  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment accurately.  Without  another  word  of  pro- 
test Trenholme  placed  the  disputed  canvas  on 
the  easel. 

"Do  you  smoke?"  inquired  the  detective  sud- 
denly. 

"Yes.  What  the  deuce  has  my  smoking  got 
to  do  with  it?" 

"I  fancied  that,  perhaps,  you  might  like  to 
have  a  pipe  while  I  examine  this  g^m  at  leisure. 
One  does  not  gabble  the  common-places  of  life 
when  in  the  presence  of  the  supreme  in  art.  I 
find  that  a  really  fine  picture  induces  a  feeling 
of  reverence,  an  emotion  akin  to  the  influence  of 
a  mountain  range,  or  a  dim  cathedral.  Pray 
burn  incense.  I  am  almost  tempted  to  regret 
being  a  non-smoker." 

Trenholme  had  heard  no  man  talk  in  that 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  127 

strain  since  last  he  sat  outside  the  Cafe  Margery 
and  watched  the  stream  of  life  flowing  along  the 
Grand  Boulevard.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
yielded  to  the  spell  of  a  familiar  jargon,  well 
knowing  he  had  been  inspired  in  every  touch 
while  striving  frenziedly  to  give  permanence  to 
a  fleeting  vision.  He  filled  his  pipe,  and  sur- 
veyed the  detective  with  a  quickened  interest. 

Furneaux  gazed  long  and  earnestly. 

" Perfect!"  he  murmured,  after  that  rapt 
pause.  "Such  a  portrait,  too,  without  any  ap- 
parent effort!  Just  compare  the  cold  sunlight 
on  the  statue  with  the  same  light  falling  on 
wet  skin.  Of  course,  Mr.  Trenholme,  you'll 
send  this  to  the  Salon.  Burlington  House  finds 
satiety  in  Mayors  and  Masters  of  Fox  Hounds." 

' '  Good,  isn  't  it  T "  agreed  Trenholme.  < '  What 
a  cursed  spite  that  it  must  be  consumed  in 
flame!" 

"But  why?"  cried  Furneaux,  unfeignedly 
horrified. 

"Dash  it  all,  man,  I  can  never  copy  it.  And 
you  wouldn't  have  me  blazon  that  girl's  face 
in  a  gallery  after  today's  tragedy!" 

The  detective  snapped  his  fingers. 

"Poof!"  he  said.  "I  shall  have  Mr.  Fenley's 
murderer  hanged  long  before  your  picture  is 
hung.  London  provides  one  front-rank  tragedy 
a  week,  but  not  another  such  masterpiece  in 
ten  years.  Burn  it  because  of  a  sentiment! 
Perish  the  thought." 


128  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"If  I  had  guessed  you  were  coming  here  so 
promptly  it  would  have  been  in  ashes  an  hour 
ago,"  said  Trenholme,  grimly  insistent  on  sacri- 
fice. 

With  a  disconcerting  change  of  manner  the 
detective  promptly  assumed  a  dryly  official  at- 
titude. 

"A  mighty  good  job  for  you  that  nothing  of 
the  sort  occurred,"  he  said.  "Your  picture  is 
your  excuse,  Mr.  Trenholme.  What  plea  could 
you  have  urged  for  spying  on  a  lady  in  an  open- 
air  bath  if  deprived  of  the  only  valid  one?" 

"Look  here!"  came  the  angry  retort.  "You 
seem  to  be  a  pretty  fair  judge  of  a  drawing,  but 
you  choose  your  words  rather  carelessly.  Just 
now  you  described  me  as  'hidden'  behind  that 
clump  of  trees,  and  again  you  accuse  me  of 
1  spying.'  I  won't  stand  that  sort  of  thing  from 
Scotland  Yard,  nor  from  Buckingham  Palace, 
if  it  comes  to  that." 

Furneaux  instantly  reverted  to  his  French 
vein.  His  shrug  was  eminently  Parisian. 

"You  misunderstand  me.  I  allege  neither 
hiding  nor  spying  on  your  part.  Name  of  a 
good  little  gray  man!  The  President  of  the 
Royal  Academy  would  hide  and  spy  for  a  month 
if  he  could  palliate  his  conduct  by  that  picture. 
But,  given  no  picture,  what  is  the  answer?  Re- 
flect calmly,  Mr.  Trenholme,  and  you'll  see  that 
mine  are  words  of  wisdom.  Burn  that  canvas, 
and  you  cut  a  sorry  figure  in  the  witness  box. 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  129 

Moreover,  suppose  you  treat  the  law  with  dis- 
dain, how  do  you  propose  explaining  your  ac- 
tions to  Miss  Sylvia  Manning?'* 

"In  all  probability,  I  shall  never  meet  the 
lady." 

"Oh,  won't  you,  indeed!  I  have  the  honor 
to  request  you  to  meet  her  tomorrow  morning 
by  the  shore  of  that  sylvan  lake  at  nine  fifteen, 
sharp.  And  kindly  bring  both  sketches  with 
you.  Only,  for  goodness'  sake,  keep  this  one 
covered  with  a  water-proof  wrap  if  the  weather 
breaks,  which  it  doesn't  look  like  doing  at  this 
moment.  Now,  Mr.  Trenholme,  take  the  advice 
of  a  dried-up  chip  of  experience  like  me,  and  be 
sensible.  One  word  as  to  actualities.  I'm  told 
you  didn't  see  anything  in  the  park  which  led 
you  to  believe  that  a  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted?" 

"Not  a  thing.  I  heard  the  gunshot,  and  noted 
where  it  came  from,  but  so  far  as  I  could  as- 
certain, the  only  creatures  it  disturbed  were 
some  rabbits,  rooks  and  pheasants." 

' '  Ah !    Where  did  the  pheasants  show  up ! " 

1 1  Out  of  the  wood,  close  to  the  spot  where  the 
rifle  was  fired." 

"How  many?" 

* '  How  many  what  ? ' ' 

"Pheasants." 

"A  brace.  They  flew  right  across  the  south 
front  of  the  house  to  a  covert  on  the  west  side. 
Is  that  an  important  detail?" 


130  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

"When  you  hear  the  evidence  you  may  find 
it  so,"  commented  Furneaux.  "Why  do  you 
say  'rifle'?  Why  not  plain  'gun'1?" 

"Because  any  one  who  has  handled  both  a 
rifle  and  a  shotgun  can  recognize  the  difference 
in  sound.  The  explosive  force  of  the  one  is 
many  times  greater  than  that  of  the  other. ' ' 

"Are  you,  too,  an  expert  marksman!" 

"I  can  shoot  a  hit.  Hardly  an  expert,  per- 
haps, seeing  that  I  haven't  used  a  gun  during 
the  past  five  years.  If  you  know  France,  Mr. 
Furneaux,  you'll  agree  that  British  ideas  of 
sport " 

"I  do  know  France,"  broke  in  the  detective. 
"There  isn't  a  cock  robin  or  a  jenny  wren  left 
in  the  country.  ...  As  a  mere  formality,  what 
magazine  are  you  working  for  f ' ' 

Trenholme  told  him,  and  Furneaux  hurried 
away,  halting  for  an  instant  in  the  doorway  to 
raise  a  warning  finger. 

"Tomorrow,  at  the  cedars,  nine  fifteen,"  he 
said.  "And,  mind  you,  no  holocausts,  or  you're 
up  a  gum  tree.  You  were  either  painting  a 
pretty  girl  or  gloating  over  her.  Prove  the  one 
and  people  won't  think  the  other,  which  they 
will  be  only  too  ready  to  do,  this  being  a  cynical 
and  suspicious  world." 

He  left  a  bewildered  artist  glaring  after  him. 
Trenholme 's  acquaintance  with  the  police, 
either  of  England  or  France,  was  of  the  slight- 
est. Sometimes,  when  overexcited  by  the  dis- 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  131 

covery  of  some  new  and  entrancing  upland  in 
the  domain  of  art,  he  had  bought  or  borrowed 
a  volume  of  light  fiction  in  order  to  read  him- 
self to  sleep,  and  a  detective  figured  occasion- 
ally in  such  pages.  Usually,  the  official  was  a 
pig-headed  idiot,  whose  blunders  and  narrow- 
mindedness  served  as  admirable  whetstones  for 
the  preternaturally  sharp  intelligence  of  an  am- 
ateur investigator  of  crime. 

Trenholme,  like  the  average  reader,  did  not 
know  that  such  self-appointed  sleuths  are 
snubbed  and  despised  by  Scotland  Yard,  that 
they  seldom  or  never  base  their  fantastic  theo- 
ries on  facts,  or  that,  in  fiction,  they  act  in  a 
way  which  would  entail  their  own  speedy  ap- 
pearance in  the  dock  if  practiced  in  real  life. 
Furneaux  came  as  a  positive  revelation.  A 
small,  wiry  individual  who  looked  like  a  come- 
dian and  spouted  the  truisms  of  the  studio,  a 
wizened  little  whippersnapper  who  put  hardly 
one  direct  question  to  a  prospective  witness,  but 
whose  caustic  comments  had  placed  a  new  and 
vastly  disagreeable  aspect  on  the  morning's  ad- 
venture— such  a  man  to  be  the  representative 
of  staid  and  heavy-footed  Scotland  Yard! 
Well,  wonders  would  never  cease.  It  was  not 
for  a  bewildered  artist  yet  to  know  that  Fur- 
neaux's  genius  alone  excused  his  eccentricities. 

And  he,  Trenholme,  was  to  meet  the  girl !  He 
turned  to  the  easel  and  looked  at  the  picture. 
A  few  hours  ago  he  had  reviled  the  fate  that 


132  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

seemed  to  forbid  their  meeting.  Now  he  was 
to  be  brought  to  her,  though  somewhat  after 
the  fashion  of  a  felon  with  gyves  on  his  wrists, 
since  Furneaux's  request  for  the  morrow's  ren- 
dezvous rang  ominously  like  a  command.  In- 
deed, indeed,  it  was  a  mad  world ! 

At  any  rate,  he  did  not,  as  he  had  intended, 
tear  the  canvas  from  its  stretcher  and  apply  a 
match  to  it  in  the  grate.  Thus  far,  then,  had 
Furneaux's  queer  method  been  justified.  He 
had  hit  on  the  one  certain  means  of  restraint 
on  an  act  of  vandalism.  The  picture  now  stood 
between  Trenholme  and  the  scoffing  multitude. 
It  was  his  buckler  against  the  shafts  of  innu- 
endo. Eather  than  lose  it  before  his  actions 
were  vindicated  he  would  suffer  the  depletion 
to  the  last  penny  of  a  not  altogether  meager 
bank  account. 

Of  course,  this  open-souled  youngster  never 
dreamed  that  the  detective  had  read  his  style 
and  attributes  in  one  lightning-swift  glance  of 
intuition.  Before  ever  Trenholme  was  aware  of 
a  stranger  standing  in  the  open  doorway  of  the 
dining-room  Furneaux  had  taken  his  measure. 

"English,  a  gentleman,  art-trained  in  Paris. 
Thinks  the  loss  of  La  Giaconde  a  far  more  seri- 
ous event  than  a  revolution,  and  regards  the 
Futurist  school  pretty  much  as  the  Home  Sec- 
retary regards  the  militant  suffragists.  Knows 
as  much  about  the  murder  as  I  do  about  the 
rings  of  Saturn.  But  he  ought  to  provide  a 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  133 

touch  of  humor  in  an  affair  that  promises  little 
else  than  heavy  tragedy.  And  it  will  do  Miss 
Sylvia  Manning  some  good  if  she  is  made  to 
see  that  there  are  others  than  Fenleys  in  the 
world.  So,  have  at  him!" 

While  going  downstairs,  the  detective  became 
aware  of  some  sniffling  in  the  back  passage. 
Eliza  red-eyed  now  from  distress,  stood  there, 
dabbing  her  cheeks  with  a  corner  of  her  apron. 

11  Pup-pup-please,  sir,"  she  began,  but  quailed 
under  a  sudden  and  penetrating  look  from  those 
beady  eyes. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  inquired  Furneaux. 

A  violent  nudge  from  curl  papers  stirred  the 
cook's  wits. 

"I  do  hope  you  dud-dud-didn't  pay  any  heed 
to  anythink  I  was  a-sayin'  of,"  she  stammered. 
"Mr.  Trenholme  wouldn't  hurt  a  fuf-fuf-fly.  I 
sus-sus-saw  the  picter,  an'  was  on'y  a-teasin'  of 
'im,  like  a  sus-sus-silly  woman." 

"Exactly.  Yet  he  heaps  coals  of  fire  on  your 
head  by  declaring  that  you  are  the  best  cook 
in  Hertfordshire!  Is  that  true?" 

Furneaux 's  impish  grin  was  a  tonic  in  itself. 
Eliza  dropped  the  apron  and  squared  her 
elbows. 

"I  don't  know  about  bein'  the  best  in  Hert- 
fordshire," she  cried,  "but  I  can  hold  me  own 
no  matter  where  the  other  one  comes  from,  pro- 
vided we  start  fair." 

"Take  warning,  then,  that  if  I  bring  a  man 


134  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

here  tomorrow  evening — a  big  man,  with  a 
round  head  and  bulging  blue  eyes — a  man  who 
looks  as  though  he  can  use  a  carving-knife  with 
discretion — you  prepare  a  dinner  worthy  of  the 
reputation  of  the  White  Horse!  In  that  way, 
and  in  none  other,  can  you  rehabilitate  your 
character. ' ' 

Furneaux  was  gone  before  Eliza  recovered 
her  breath.  Then  she  turned  on  the  kitchen 
maid. 

"Wot  was  it  he  said  about  my  char-ac-ter?" 
she  demanded  warmly.  "An'  wot  are  you  grin- 
nin'  at?  If  it  wasn't  for  your  peepin'  an'  pry- 
in'  I'd  never  ha'  set  eyes  on  that  blessed  picter. 
You  go  an'  put  on  a  black  dress,  an'  do  yer 
hair  respectable,  an'  mind  yer  don't  spend  half 
an  hour  perkin'  an'  preenin'  in  front  of  a 
lookin '-glass." 

Mary  fled,  and  Eliza  bustled  into  the  kitchen. 

"A  big  man,  with  a  round  head  an'  bulgin' 
blue  eyes ! ' '  she  muttered  wrathf ully.  * ' Does  he 
think  I'm  afraid  of  that  sort  of  brewer's  dray- 
man, or  of  a  little  man  with  eyes  like  a  ferret, 
either?  If  he  does,  he's  very  much  mis- 
taken. I  don't  believe  he's  a  real  'tec.  I 
wouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he  wasn't  a  re- 
porter. They've  cheek  enough  for  ten,  as  a 
rule.  Talkin'  about  my  char-ac-ter,  an'  before 
that  hussy  of  a  girl,  too!  Wait  till  I  see  him 
tomorrow,  that's  all." 

Meanwhile,  Furneaux  had  not  held  the  second 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  135 

glass  of  Chateau  Yquem  to  the  light  in  Tomlin- 
son's  sanctum  before  "Winter's  car  was  halting 
outside  Brondesbury  police  station.  An  Inspec- 
tor assured  the  Superintendent  that  a  constable 
was  on  the  track  of  Robert  Fenley,  and  had  in- 
structions to  report  direct  to  Scotland  Yard. 
Then  Winter  reentered  the  car,  and  was  driven 
to  Headquarters. 

He  was  lunching  in  his  own  room,  frugally 
but  well,  on  bread  and  cheese  and  beer,  when  the 
Assistant  Commissioner  came  in. 

' '  Ah,  Mr.  Winter, ' '  he  said.  < '  I  was  told  you 
had  returned.  That  telephone  call  came  from 
a  call  office  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue.  A  lady, 
name  unknown,  but  the  youth  in  charge  knows 
her  well  by  sight,  and  thinks  she  lives  in  a  set  of 
flats  near  by.  I  thought  the  information  suffi- 
cient for  your  purpose,  so  suspended  inquiries 
till  I  heard  from  you." 

"Just  what  I  wanted,  sir,"  said  Winter. 
' '  There  may  be  nothing  in  it,  but  I  was  curious 
to  know  why  Hilton  Fenley  took  the  trouble  to 
fib  about  such  a  trivial  matter.  His  brother, 
too,  is  behaving  in  a  way  that  invites  criticism. 
I  don't  imagine  that  either  of  the  sons  shot  his 
father — most  certainly,  Hilton  Fenley  could  not 
have  done  it,  and  Robert,  I  think,  was  in  Lon- 
don at  the  time " 

"Dear  me!"  broke  in  the  other,  a  man  of 
quiet,  self-contained  manner,  on  whose  lips  that 
mild  exclamation  betokened  the  maximum  of 


136  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

surprise.  ' '  Is  there  any  reason  whatsoever  for 
believing  that  one  of  these  young  men  may  be 
a  parricide?" 

"So  many  reasons,  sir,  and  so  convincing  in 
some  respects,  that  the  local  police  would  be 
seriously  considering  the  arrest  of  Eobert  Fen- 
ley  if  they  had  the  ascertained  facts  in  their 
possession." 

The  Assistant  Commissioner  sat  down. 

"I  hear  you  keep  a  sound  brand  of  cigars 
here,  Mr.  Winter,"  he  said.  "I've  just  lunched 
in  the  St.  Stephen's  Club,  so,  if  you  can  spare 
the  time " 

At  the  end  of  the  Superintendent's  recital 
the  Chief  offered  no  comment.  He  arose,  went 
to  the  window,  and  seemed  to  seek  inspiration 
from  busy  Westminster  Bridge  and  a  river 
dancing  in  sunshine.  After  a  long  pause  he 
turned,  and  threw  the  unconsumed  half  of  a 
cigar  into  the  fireplace. 

"It's  a  pity  to  waste  such  a  perfect  Havana," 
he  said  mournfully,  "but  I  make  it  a  rule  not 
to  smoke  while  passing  along  the  corridors. 
And — you'll  be  busy.  Keep  me  posted." 

Winter  smiled.  When  the  door  had  closed  on 
his  visitor  he  even  laughed. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said  to  himself.  "A  heart  to 
heart  talk  with  the  guv 'nor  is  always  most  il- 
luminative. Now  many  another  boss  would 
have  said  he  was  puzzled,  or  bothered,  or  have 
given  me  some  silly  advice  such  as  that  I  must 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  137 

be  discreet,  look  into  affairs  closely,  and  not  act 
precipitately.  Not  so  our  excellent  A.  C.  He 's 
clean  bowled,  and  admits  it,  without  speaking 
a  word  He 's  a  tonic ;  he  really  is !" 

He  touched  an  electric  bell.  When  the  police- 
man attendant,  Johnston,  appeared,  he  asked  if 
Detective  Sergeant  Sheldon  was  in  the  build- 
ing, and  Sheldon  came.  The  Superintendent 
had  met  him  in  a  Yorkshire  town  during  a  pro- 
tracted and  difficult  inquiry  into  the  death  of  a 
wealthy  recluse;  although  the  man  was  merely 
an  ordinary  constable  he  had  shown  such  re- 
sourcefulness, such  ability  of  a  rare  order,  that 
he  was  invited  to  join  the  staff  of  the  Criminal 
Investigation  Department,  and  had  warranted 
Winter's  judgment  by  earning  rapid  promo- 
tion. 

Though  tall,  and  of  athletic  build,  he  had  none 
of  the  distinctive  traits  of  the  average  police- 
man. He  dressed  quietly  and  in  good  taste,  and 
carried  himself  easily;  a  peculiarity  of  his 
thoughtful,  somewhat  lawyer-like  face  was  that 
the  left  eye  was  noticeably  smaller  than  the 
right.  Among  other  qualifications,  he  ranked  as 
the  best  amateur  photographer  in  the  "Yard," 
and  was  famous  as  a  rock  climber  in  the  Lake 
District. 

Winter  plunged  at  once  into  the  business  in 
hand. 

" Sheldon, "  he  said,  "I'm  going  out,  and  may 
be  absent  an  hour  or  longer.  If  a  telephone 


138  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

message  comes  through  from  Mr.  Furneaux  tell 
him  I  have  located  the  doubtful  call  made  to 
The  Towers  this  morning.  Have  you  read  the 
report  of  the  Fenley  murder  in  the  evening 
papers!" 

"Yes,  sir.    Is  it  a  murder?" 

"What  else  could  it  be!" 

"An  extraordinary  accident." 

Winter  weighed  the  point,  which  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  previously. 

"No,"  he  said.  "It  was  no  accident.  I  in- 
cline to  the  belief  that  it  was  the  best-planned 
crime  I've  tackled  during  the  past  few  years. 
That  is  my  present  opinion,  at  any  rate.  Now, 
a  man  from  the  Brondesbury  police  station  is 
following  one  of  the  dead  man's  sons,  a  Mr. 
Robert  Fenley,  who  bolted  back  to  London  on  a 
motor  cycle  as  soon  as  I  threatened  to  question 
him. 

"Eobert  Fenley  is  twenty-four,  fresh-com- 
plexioned,  clean-shaven,  about  five  feet  nine 
inches  in  height,  stoutish,  and  of  sporty  appear- 
ance. He  had  his  hair  cut  yesterday  or  the  day 
before.  His  hands  and  feet  are  rather  small. 
He  talks  aggressively,  and  looks  what  he  is,  a 
pampered  youth,  very  much  spoiled  by  his  par- 
ents. His  clothes — all  that  I  have  seen — are  a 
motorist's  overalls.  If  the  Brondesbury  man 
reports  here  during  my  absence  act  as  you  think 
fit.  I  want  Robert  Fenley  located,  followed,  and 
watched  unobtrusively,  especially  in  such  mat- 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  139 

ters  as  the  houses  he  visits  and  the  people  he 
meets.  If  you  need  help  get  it." 

"Till  what  time,  sir!"  was  the  laconic  ques- 
tion. 

"That  depends.  Try  and  'phone  me  here 
about  five  o  'clock.  But  if  you  are  otherwise  en- 
gaged let  the  telephone  go.  Should  Fenley  seem 
to  leave  London  by  the  Edgware  Road,  which 
leads  to  Eoxton,  have  him  checked  on  the  way. 
Here  is  the  number  of  his  cycle,"  and  Winter 
jotted  a  memorandum  on  the  back  of  an  en- 
velope. 

"What  about  Mr.  Furneaux  if  I  am  called  out 
almost  immediately?" 

"Give  the  message  to  Johnston." 

Then  Winter  hurried  away,  and,  repressing 
the  inclination  to  hail  a  taxi,  walked  up  White- 
hall and  crossed  Trafalgar  Square  en  route  to 
the  Shaftesbury  Avenue  address  supplied  by 
the  Assistant  Commissioner. 

He  found  a  sharp-featured  youth  in  charge 
of  the  telephone,  which  was  lodged  in  an  estate 
agent's  office.  The  boy  grinned  when  the  Super- 
intendent explained  his  errand. 

"Excuse  me/'  he  said,  with  the  pert  assur- 
ance of  the  born  Cockney,  "but  we  aren't  al- 
lowed to  give  information  about  customers." 

"You've  broken  your  rules  already,  young 
man,"  said  Winter.  "You  answered  a  similar 
inquiry  made  by  Scotland  Yard  some  hours 
since." 


140  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Oh,  was  that  it?  Gerrard  rang  me  up,  and 
I  thought  there  was  something  funny  going  on. 
Are  you  from  Scotland  Yard,  sir?" 

Winter  proffered  a  card,  and  the  boy's  eyes 
opened  wide. 

" Crikey!"  he  said.  "I've  read  about  you, 
sir.  Well,  I've  been  doing  a  bit  of  detective 
work  of  my  own.  At  lunch  time  I  strolled  past 
the  set  of  flats  where  I  thought  the  lady  lived, 
and  had  the  luck  to  see  her  getting  out  of  a  cab 
at  the  door.  I  followed  her  upstairs,  pretend- 
ing I  had  business  somewhere,  and  saw  her  go 
into  No.  Eleven.  Her  name  is  Miss  Eileen 
Garth — at  least,  that's  the  name  opposite  No. 
Eleven  in  the  list  in  the  hall." 

"When  you're  a  bit  older  you'll  make  a  de- 
tective," said  Winter.  "You've  learned  the 
first  trick  of  the  job,  and  that  is  to  keep  your 
eyes  open.  Now,  to  encourage  you,  I'll  tell  you 
the  second.  Keep  your  mouth  shut.  If  this 
lady  is  Miss  Garth  she  is  not  the  person  we 
want,  but  it  would  annoy  her  if  she  heard  the 
police  were  inquiring  about  her ;  so  here  is  half 
a  crown  for  your  trouble." 

"Can  I  do  anything  else  for  you,  sir!"  came 
the  eager  demand. 

*  *  Nothing.  I  'm  on  the  wrong  scent,  evidently, 
but  you  have  saved  me  from  wasting  time.  This 
Miss  Eileen  Garth  is  English,  of  course!" 

"Yes,  sir;  very  good-looking,  but  rather 
snappy." 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  141 

Winter  sighed. 

*  *  That  just  shows  how  easy  it  is  to  blunder, '  * 
he  said.  "I'm  looking  for  a  Polish  Jewess, 
whose  chief  feature  is  her  nose,  and  who  wears 
big  gold  earrings." 

"Oh,  Miss  Garth  is  quite  different,"  said  the 
disappointed  youth.  "She's  tall  and  slim — a 
regular  dasher,  big  black  hat,  swell  togs,  black 
and  white,  and  smart  boots  with  white  spats. 
She  wore  pearls  in  her  ears,  too,  because  I  no- 
ticed 'em." 

Winter  sighed  again. 

"Another  half  day  lost,"  he  murmured,  and 
went  out. 

Knowing  well  that  the  boy  would  note  the  di- 
rection he  took,  he  turned  away  from  the  block 
of  flats  and  made  for  Soho,  where  he  smoked  a 
thin,  raffish  Italian  cigar  with  an  Anarchist  of 
his  acquaintance  who  kept  a  restaurant  famous 
for  its  risotto.  Then,  by  other  streets,  he  ap- 
proached Gloucester  Mansions,  and  soon  was 
pressing  the  electric  bell  of  No.  Eleven. 

"Miss  Garth  in?"  he  said  to  an  elderly, 
hatchet-faced  woman  who  opened  the  door. 

"Why  do  you  want  Miss  Garth?"  was  the 
non-committal  reply,  given  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  meant  the  stranger  to  understand  that  he 
was  not  addressing  a  servant. 

"I  shall  explain  my  errand  to  the  lady  her- 
self," said  Winter  civilly.  "Kindly  tell  her 
that  Superintendent  Winter,  of  the  Criminal  In- 


142  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

vestigation  Department,  Scotland  Yard,  wishes 
to  see  her." 

To  him  it  was  no  new  thing  that  his  name 
and  description  should  bring  dismay,  even  ter- 
ror, to  the  cheeks  of  one  to  whom  he  made  him- 
self known  professionally,  but  unless  he  was  ad- 
dressing some  desperate  criminal,  he  did  not 
expect  to  be  assaulted.  For  once,  therefore,  he 
was  thoroughly  surprised  when  a  bony  hand 
shot  out  and  pushed  him  backward;  the  door 
was  slammed  in  his  face ;  the  latch  clicked,  and 
he  was  left  staring  at  a  small  brass  plate  bear- 
ing the  legend :  ' '  Ring.  Do  not  knock. ' ' 

Naturally,  this  bold  maneuver  could  not  have 
succeeded  had  he  a  right  of  entry.  A  woman's 
physical  strength  was  unequal  to  the  task  of  dis- 
turbing his  burly  frame,  and  a  foot  thrust  be- 
tween door  and  jamb  would  have  done  the  rest. 
As  matters  stood,  however,  he  was  obliged  to 
abandon  any  present  hope  of  an  interview  with 
the  mysterious  Miss  Eileen  Garth. 

He  remained  stock  still  for  some  seconds,  lis- 
tening to  the  retreating  footsteps  of  the  strong- 
minded  person  who  had  beaten  him.  It  was  his 
habit  to  visualize  for  future  reference  the  fea- 
tures and  demeanor  of  people  in  whom  he  was 
interested,  and  of  whom  circumstances  per- 
mitted only  the  merest  glimpse.  This  woman's 
face  had  revealed  annoyance  rather  than  fear. 
"Scotland  Yard"  was  not  an  ogre  but  a  nui- 
sance. She  held,  or,  at  any  rate,  she  had  exer- 


SOME  SIDE  ISSUES  143 

cised,  a  definite  power  of  rejecting  visitors 
whom  she  considered  undesirable.  Therefore, 
she  was  a  relative,  probably  Eileen  Garth's 
mother  or  aunt. 

Eileen  Garth  was  "tall  and  slim,"  " good- 
looking,  but  rather  snappy."  Well,  twenty 
years  ago,  the  description  would  have  applied 
to  the  woman  he  had  just  seen.  Her  voice, 
heard  under  admittedly  adverse  conditions,  was 
correct  in  accent  and  fairly  cultured.  Before 
the  world  had  hardened  it  its  tones  might  have 
been  soft  and  dulcet.  But  above  all,  there  was 
the  presumable  discovery  that  Eileen  Garth  was 
as  decidedly  opposed  as  Eobert  Fenley  to  full 
and  free  discussion  of  that  morning's  crime. 

"Furneaux  will  jeer  at  me  when  he  hears  of 
this  little  episode,"  thought  Winter,  smiling  as 
he  turned  to  descend  the  stairs.  Furneaux  did 
jeer,  but  it  was  at  his  colleague's  phenomenal 
luck. 

The  door  of  No.  Twelve,  the  only  other  flat 
on  the  same  landing,  opened,  and  a  man  ap- 
peared. Eecognition  was  prompt  on  Winter's 
side. 

"Hello,  Drake!"  he  said  genially.  "Are  you 
Signor  Maselli?  Well  met,  anyhow!  Can  you 
give  me  a  friendly  word?" 

The  occupant  of  flat  No.  Twelve,  an  under- 
sized, slightly  built  man  of  middle  age,  seemed 
to  have  received  the  shock  of  his  life.  His  sal- 
low-complexioned  face  assumed  a  greenish- 


144  MORTIMER  FENLET 

yellow  tint,  and  his  deepset  eyes  glistened  like 
those  of  a  hunted  animal. 

"Friendly!"  he  contrived  to  gasp,  giving  a 
ghastly  look  over  his  shoulder  to  ascertain 
whether  any  one  in  the  interior  of  the  flat  had 
heard  that  name  "Drake." 

"Yes.  I  mean  it.  Strictly  on  the  q.  t.,"  said 
Winter,  sinking  his  voice  to  a  confidential  pitch. 
Signor  Giovanni  Maselli,  since  that  was  the 
name  modestly  displayed  on  No.  Twelve 's  card 
in  the  hall  beneath,  closed  the  door  carefully. 
He  appeared  to  trust  Winter,  up  to  a  point,  but 
evidently  found  it  hard  to  regain  self-control. 

"Not  here!"  he  whispered.  "In  five  min- 
utes— at  the  Regency  Cafe,  Piccadilly.  Let  me 
go  alone." 

Winter  nodded,  and  the  other  darted  down- 
stairs. The  detective  followed  slowly.  Cross- 
ing the  street  at  an  angle,  he  looked  up  at 
the  smoke-stained  elevation  of  Gloucester  Man- 
sions. 

"A  well-filled  nest,"  he  communed,  "and  a 
nice  lot  of  prize  birds  in  it,  upon  my  word!" 

The  last  time  he  had  set  eyes  on  a  certain 
notably  expert  forger  and  counterfeiter  a  judge 
was  passing  sentence  of  five  years'  penal  servi- 
tude and  three  years'  police  supervision  on  a 
felon;  and  the  judge  had  not  addressed  the 
prisoner  as  Giovanni  Maselli,  but  as  John 
Christopher  Drake! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COINCIDENCES 

WINTER  was  blessed  with  an  unfailing  mem- 
ory for  dates  and  faces.  Before  he  had  emerged 
from  the  main  exit  of  Gloucester  Mansions  he 
had  fixed  Drake  as  committed  from  the  Old 
Bailey  during  the  Summer  assizes  four  years 
earlier,  released  from  Portland  on  ticket  of 
leave  at  the  beginning  of  the  current  year,  and 
marked  in  the  "failure  to  report"  list. 

' '  Poor  devil ! "  he  said  to  himself.  ' '  The  very 
man  for  my  purpose ! ' ' 

Therefore,  seeing  his  way  clearly,  his  glance 
was  not  so  encouraging  nor  his  voice  so  pleasant 
when  he  found  the  ex-convict  awaiting  him  in 
the  Eegency  Cafe.  Nevertheless,  obeying  the 
curious  code  which  links  the  police  and  noted 
criminals  in  a  sort  of  camaraderie,  he  asked  the 
man  what  he  would  drink,  and  ordered  ciga- 
rettes as  well. 

"Now,  Maselli,"  he  said,  when  they  were 
seated  at  a  marble-topped  table  in  a  corner  of 
a  well-filled  room, ' '  since  we  know  each  other  so 
well  we  can  converse  plainly,  eh?" 

"Yes,  sir,  but  I'm  done  for  now.    I've  been 

145 


146  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

trying  to  earn  an  honest  living,  and  have  suc- 
ceeded, but  now " 

The  man  spoke  brokenly.  His  spirit  was 
crushed.  He  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  the  frowning 
portals  of  a  convict  settlement,  and  heard  the 
boom  of  a  giant  knocker  reverberating  through 
gaunt  aisles  of  despair. 

"If  you  reflect  that  I  am  calling  you  Maselli, 
you  '11  drink  that  whisky  and  soda,  and  listen  to 
what  I  have  to  say,"  broke  in  Winter  severely. 

The  other  looked  up  at  him,  and  a  gleam  of 
hope  illumined  the  pallid  cheeks.  He  drank 
eagerly,  and  lighted  a  cigarette  with  trembling 
fingers. 

"If  only  I  am  given  a  chance "  he  began, 

but  the  detective  interfered  again. 

"If  only  you  would  shut  up!"  he  said  em- 
phatically. "I  want  your  help,  and  I'm  not  in 
the  habit  of  rewarding  my  assistants  by  send- 
ing them  back  to  prison." 

Maselli  (as  he  may  remain  in  this  record) 
was  so  excited  that  he  literally  could  not  obey. 

"I've  cut  completely  adrift  from  the  old 
crowd,  sir,"  he  pleaded  wistfully.  "I'm  an  en- 
graver now,  and  in  good  work.  Heaven  help 
me,  I'm  married,  too.  She  doesn't  know.  She 
thinks  I  was  stranded  in  America,  and  that  I 
changed  my  name  because  Italians  are  thought 
more  of  than  Englishmen  in  my  line. ' ' 

"Giovanni  Maselli,  may  I  ask  what  you  are 
talking  about  ? ' '  said  Winter,  stiffening  visibly. 


COINCIDENCES  147 

At  last  the  hunted  and  haunted  wretch  per- 
suaded himself  that  "the  Yard"  meant  to  be 
merciful.  Tears  glistened  in  his  eyes,  but  he 
finished  the  whisky  and  soda  and  remained 
silent. 

"Good!"  said  Winter  more  cheerfully.  **I 
sha'n't  call  you  Maselli  again  if  you  don't  be- 
have. Now,  how  long  have  you  lived  in  Glouces- 
ter Mansions  ? ' ' 

"Four  months,  sir.  Ever  since  my  mar- 
riage." 

Winter  smiled.  The  man  had  gone  straight 
from  the  gates  of  Portland  to  some  woman  who 
was  waiting  for  him !  He  was  an  old  offender, 
but  had  proved  slippery  as  an  eel — hence  a  stiff 
sentence  when  caught ;  but  penal  servitude  had 
conquered  him. 

"Has  Miss  Eileen  Garth  lived  in  No.  Eleven 
during  those  four  months  ? ' '  was  the  next  ques- 
tion. 

"Yes,  sir — two  years  or  more,  I  believe.  Her 
mother  mentioned  something  of  it  to  my  wife 
one  day." 

* '  Her  mother  ?    Same  name  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Garth." 

"How  do  they  live?" 

"The  daughter  was  learning  to  be  a  stage 
dancer;  but  they've  come  into  a  settled  income, 
and  that  idea  is  given  up. ' ' 

"Any  male  relations?" 

"None  that  I  know  of,  sir.    Eileen  is  engaged 


148  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

to  be  married.  I  haven't  heard  the  gentleman's 
name,  but  I've  seen  him  scores  of  times." 

11  Scores  of  times — in  four  months?" 

"Yes,  sir,  every  second  or  third  day.  That 
is,  I  either  meet  him  or  know  he  is  there  because 
Mrs.  Maselli  and  Mrs.  Garth  are  friendly,  and 
there  is  constant  coming  and  going  across  the 
landing." 

"Is  he  a  man  of  about  thirty,  middle  height, 
lanky  black  hair,  smooth  dark  face,  sunken  eyes, 
high  cheek  bones — rather,  shall  I  say,  Italian  in 
appearance  ? ' ' 

Maselli  was  surprised,  and  showed  it. 

' '  Why,  sir,  you  've  described  him  to  a  nicety, ' ' 
he  said. 

"Very  well.  Next  time  he  is  there  to  your 
absolute  knowledge,  slip  out  and  telephone  the 
fact  to  me  at  Scotland  Yard.  If  I'm  not  in,  ask 
for  Mr.  Furneaux.  You  remember  Mr.  Fur- 
neaux!" 

A  sickly  smile  admitted  the  acquaintance. 
Furneaux  had  recognized  the  same  artist's  hand 
in  each  of  many  realistic  forgeries,  and  it  was 
this  fact  which  led  to  the  man's  capture  and  con- 
viction. 

"If  neither  of  us  is  at  home,  inquire  for  Mr. 
Sheldon,"  went  on  Winter.  "Note  him.  He's 
a  stranger  to  you.  If  you  fail  to  get  hold  of  any 
of  us,  say  simply  that  Signer  Maselli  would  like 
to  have  a  word  at  our  convenience.  It  will  be 
understood.  We  sha'n't  bother  you.  Give  an- 


COINCIDENCES  149 

other  call  next  time  the  visitor  is  in  Mrs.  Garth's 
flat,  and  keep  on  doing  this  until  you  find  one  of 
the  three  on  the  line.  Don't  use  the  telephone  in 
Shaf  tesbury  Avenue  near  the  Mansions,  because 
the  boy  in  charge  there  might  be  suspicious,  and 
blab.  That  is  all.  You  are  not  doing  Mrs. 
Garth  or  her  daughter  an  ill  turn,  so  far  as  I 
can  judge.  Keep  a  still  tongue.  Silence  on 
your  part  will  meet  with  silence  on  mine.  .  .  . 
Oh,  dash  it,  have  another  drink!  Where's  your 
nerve  ? ' ' 

Signor  Giovanni  Maselli  was  crying.  A  phan- 
tom had  brushed  close,  but  was  passing; 
nevertheless,  its  shadow  had  chilled  him  to 
the  bone. 

Winter  walked  back  to  Scotland  Yard,  and 
found  that  Sheldon  had  gone,  leaving  a  note 
which  read:  "Mr.  Eobert  Fenley  is  at  104,  Hen- 
don  Road,  Battersea  Park."  He  was  tempted 
to  have  a  word  with  Furneaux,  but  forbore, 
and  tackled  some  other  departmental  business. 
It  was  a  day  fated,  however,  to  evolve  the  unex- 
pected. About  a  quarter  to  four  the  telephone 
bell  rang,  and  Maselli  informed  him  that  Miss 
Garth's  fiance  had  just  arrived  at  Gloucester 
Mansions. 

"Excellent,"  said  Winter.  "In  future,  de- 
vote your  energies  to  legitimate  engraving. 
Good-by!" 

He  rushed  out  and  leaped  into  a  taxi ;  within 
five  minutes  he  was  at  the  door  of  No.  Eleven 


150  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

once  more.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  he  had 
not  weighed  the  possible  consequences  of  thrust- 
ing himself  in  this  fashion  into  Hilton  Fenley's 
private  affairs.  Although  the  man  had  sum- 
moned the  assistance  of  Scotland  Yard  to  eluci- 
date the  mystery  of  his  father's  death,  that  fact 
alone  could  not  secure  him  immunity  from  the 
law's  all-embracing  glance.  Winter  agreed 
with  Furneaux  that  the  profession  of  a  private 
banker  combined  with  company  promotion  is 
too  often  a  cloak  for  roguery  in  the  City  of  Lon- 
don, and  the  little  he  knew  of  the  Fenley  history 
did  not  tend  to  dissipate  a  certain  nebulous  sus- 
picion that  their  record  might  not  be  wholly 
clean. 

The  theft  of  the  bonds  had  been  hushed  up 
in  a  way  that  savored  of  unwillingness  on  Mor- 
timer Fenley's  part  to  permit  the  police  to  take 
action.  The  man's  tragic  death  might  well  be  a 
sequel  to  the  robbery,  and,  granted  the  impos- 
sibility of  his  elder  son  having  committed  the 
murder,  there  was  nothing  fantastic  in  the  no- 
tion that  he  might  be  a  party  to  it. 

Again,  Hilton  Fenley  had  deliberately  misled 
Scotland  Yard  in  regard  to  the  seemingly  trivial 
incident  of  the  telephone  call.  Had  he  told  the 
truth,  and  grumbled  at  the  lack  of  discretion  on 
some  woman's  part  in  breaking  in  on  a  period 
of  acute  distress  in  the  household,  Winter's  sub- 
sequent discovery  would  have  lost  its  point.  As 
matters  stood,  however,  it  was  one  of  a  large 


COINCIDENCES  151 

number  of  minor  circumstances  which  de- 
manded full  examination,  and  the  Superintend- 
ent decided  that  the  person  really  responsible 
for  any  seeming  excess  of  zeal  on  his  part 
should  be  given  an  opportunity  to  clear  the  air 
in  the  place  best  fitted  for  the  purpose ;  namely, 
the  address  from  which  the  call  emanated. 

Therefore,  when  the  door  was  opened  again 
by  Mrs.  Garth,  she  found  that  the  Napoleonic 
tactics  of  an  earlier  hour  were  no  longer  prac- 
ticable, for  the  enemy  instantly  occupied  the 
terrain  by  leaning  inward. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Hilton  Fenley,"  he  said 
suavely.  "You  know  my  name  already,  Mrs. 
Garth,  so  I  need  not  repeat  it." 

The  sharp-featured  woman  was  evidently 
sharp-witted  also.  Finding  that  the  door  might 
not  be  closed,  she  threw  it  wide. 

"I  have  no  objection  to  your  seeing  Mr.  Fen- 
ley,"  she  said.  "I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand 
why  you  follow  him  here,  but  that  does  not  con- 
cern me  in  the  least.  Come  this  way." 

Latching  the  door,  she  led  him  to  a  room  on 
the  right  of  the  entrance  hall,  which  formed  the 
central  artery  of  the  flat.  The  place  had  no 
direct  daylight.  At  night,  when  an  electric 
lamp  was  switched  on,  its  contents  would  be 
far  more  distinct  than  at  this  hour,  when  the 
only  light  came  from  a  transverse  passage  at 
the  end,  or  was  borrowed  through  any  door  that 
happened  to  remain  open.  Still,  Winter  could 


152  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

use  his  eyes,  even  in  the  momentary  gloom,  and 
he  used  them  so  well  on  this  occasion  that  he 
noted  two  trunks,  one  on  top  of  the  other,  and 
standing  close  to  the  wall. 

They  were  well  plastered  with  hotel  and  rail- 
way labels,  and  when  a  flood  of  light  poured  in 
from  the  room  to  which  Mrs.  Garth  ushered  him, 
he  deciphered  two  of  the  freshest,  and  presum- 
ably the  most  recent.  They  were  "Hotel 
d 'Italic,  Eue  Caumartin,  Paris,"  and  a  baggage 
number, ' '  517. ' '  Not  much,  perhaps,  in  the  way 
of  information,  but  something;  and  Winter 
could  trust  his  memory. 

He  found  himself  in  a  well-furnished  room, 
and  hoped  that  Mrs.  Garth  might  leave  him 
there,  even  for  a  few  seconds,  when  he  would 
be  free  to  examine  the  apartment  without  her 
supervision.  But  she  treated  him  as  if  he  might 
steal  the  spoons.  Eemaining  in  the  doorway, 
she  called  loudly : 

"Mr.  Fenley!  The  person  I  told  you  of  is 
here  again.  Will  you  kindly  come?  He  is  in 
the  dining-room.'* 

A  door  opened,  a  hurried  step  sounded  on  a 
linoleum  floor-covering,  and  Hilton  Fenley  ap- 
peared. 

"Mr.— Mr.  Winter,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  with  a 
fine  air  of  surprise. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Superintendent  composedly. 
"You  hardly  expected  to  meet  me  here,  I  sup- 
pose?" 


COINCIDENCES  153 

"Well,  Mrs.  Garth  mentioned  your  earlier 
visit,  but  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand " 

"Oh,  it  is  easily  explained.  We  of  the  Yard 
take  nothing  for  granted,  Mr.  Fenley.  I  learned 
by  chance  that  a  young  lady  who  lives  here  rang 
you  up  at  Roxton  this  morning,  and  knowing 
that  you  took  the  trouble  to  conceal  the  fact,  I 
thought  it  advisable " 

Mrs.  Garth  was  a  woman  of  discretion.  She 
closed  the  door  on  the  two  men.  Fenley  did  not 
wait  for  Winter  to  conclude. 

"That  was  foolish  of  me,  I  admit,"  he  said, 
readily  enough.  "One  does  not  wish  all  one's 
private  affairs  to  be  canvassed,  even  by  the 
police.  The  moment  Mrs.  Garth  mentioned 
your  name  I  saw  my  error.  You  checked 
the  telephone  calls  to  The  Towers,  I 
suppose,  and  thus  learned  I  had  misled 
you." 

"Something  of  the  sort.  Miss  Garth  is  a 
lady  not  difficult  of  recognition." 

"She  and  her  mother  are  very  dear  friends. 
It  was  natural  they  should  be  shocked  by  the 
paragraphs  in  the  newspapers  and  wish  to  as- 
certain the  truth." 

"Quite  so.  I'm  sorry  if  my  pertinacity  has 
annoyed  them,  or  you. ' ' 

"I  think  they  will  rather  be  pleased  by  such 
proof  of  your  thoroughness.  Certainly  I,  for 
my  part,  do  not  resent  it." 

"Very  well,  sir.    Since  I  am  here,  I  may  in- 


154  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

quire  if  you  know  any  one  living  at  104,  Hen- 
don  Road,  Battersea  Park?" 

"Now  that  you  mention  the  address,  I  recall 
it  as  the  residence  of  the  lady  in  whom  my 
brother  is  interested.  This  morning  I  had  for- 
gotten it,  but  you  have  refreshed  my  memory." 

1  'You 're  a  tolerably  self-possessed  person," 
was  the  detective 's  unspoken  thought,  for  Fenley 
was  a  different  man  now  from  the  nervous,  dis- 
trait son  who  had  clamored  for  vengeance  on 
his  father's  murderer.  "You  own  up  to  the 
facts  candidly  when  it  is  useless  to  do  anything 
else,  and  you  never  fail  to  hammer  a  nail  into 
Eobert's  coffin  when  the  opportunity  offers." 

But  aloud  he  said — 

"You  really  don't  know  the  lady's  name,  I 
suppose  ? ' ' 

Fenley  hesitated  a  fraction  of  a  second. 

"Yes,  I  do  know  it,  though  I  withheld  the  in- 
formation this  morning,"  he  replied.  "But,  I 
ask  you,  is  it  quite  fair  to  make  me  a  witness 
against  my  brother?" 

"Some  one  must  explain  Mr.  Robert's  move- 
ments, and,  since  he  declines  the  task,  I  look 
to  you,"  was  the  straightforward  answer. 

' '  She  is  a  Mrs.  Lisle, ' '  said  Fenley,  after  an- 
other pause — a  calculated  pause  this  time. 

"Have  you  visited  your  City  office  today?" 

"I  went  straight  there  from  The  Towers.  I 
told  you  I  was  going  there.  What  object  could 
I  have  in  deceiving  you ! ' ' 


COINCIDENCES  155 

*  *  None  that  I  can  see,  Mr.  Fenley.  But  I  have 
been  wondering  if  any  new  light  has  been  shed 
on  the  motive  which  might  have  led  to  the  crime. 
Have  you  examined  Mr.  Mortimer  Fenley 's  pa- 
pers, for  instance?  There  may  be  documents, 
letters,  memoranda  secreted  in  some  private 
drawer  or  dispatch  case." 

The  other  shook  his  head.  He  appeared  not 
to  resent  the  detective's  tone.  It  seemed  as  if 
regret  for  the  morning's  lack  of  confidence  had 
rendered  him  apologetic. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  have  not  had  time  yet  to 
go  through  my  father's  papers.  This  afternoon 
I  was  taken  up  wholly  with  business.  You  see, 
Mr.  Winter,  I  can  not  allow  my  personal  suffer- 
ing to  cost  other  men  thousands  of  pounds,  and 
that  must  be  the  outcome  if  certain  undertak- 
ings now  in  hand  are  not  completed.  But  my 
father  was  most  methodical,  and  his  affairs  are 
sure  to  be  thoroughly  in  order.  Within  the  next 
few  days,  when  I  have  time  to  make  a  proper 
search,  I  '11  do  it.  Meanwhile,  I  can  practically 
assure  you  that  he  had  no  reason  to  anticipate 
anything  in  the  nature  of  a  personal  attack  from 
any  quarter  whatsoever." 

"Do  you  care  to  discuss  your  brother's  extra- 
ordinary behavior  ? ' ' 

"In  what  respect?" 

"Well,  he  virtually  bolted  from  Boxton  today, 
though  I  had  warned  him  that  his  presence  was 
imperative. ' ' 


156  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"My  brother  is  self-willed  and  impetuous, 
and  he  was  dreadfully  shocked  at  finding  his 
father  dead." 

' '  Did  he  tell  you  he  meant  returning  to  Lon- 
don at  once?" 

"No.  When  I  came  downstairs,  after  the  dis- 
tressing scene  with  Mrs.  Fenley,  he  had  gone." 

The  Superintendent  was  aware  already  that 
he  was  dealing  with  a  man  cast  in  no  ordinary 
mold,  but  he  did  not  expect  this  continued  meek- 
ness. Ninety-nine  people  out  of  a  hundred 
would  have  grown  restive  under  such  cross-ex- 
amination, and  betrayed  their  annoyance  by 
word  or  look;  not  so  Hilton  Fenley,  who  be- 
haved as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world  that  he  should  be  tracked  to  his 
friends '  residence  and  made  to  explain  his  com- 
ings and  goings  during  the  day.  Swayed  by  a 
subconscious  desire  to  nettle  his  victim  into  pro- 
test, Winter  tried  a  new  tack. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Fenley,  you  have  seen  your 
father's  solicitors  today?"  he  said  suddenly. 

"If  you  mean  that  question  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  I  must  tell  you  that  my  father  employed 
no  firm  of  solicitors  for  family  purposes.  Of 
course,  at  one  time  or  another,  he  has  availed 
himself  of  the  services  of  nearly  every  leading 
firm  of  lawyers  in  the  City,  but  each  transaction 
was  complete  in  itself.  For  instance,  his  will  is 
a  holograph  will,  if  that  is  what  you  are  hinting 
at  He  told  me  its  provisions  at  the  time  it  was 


COINCIDENCES  157 

signed  and  witnessed,  and  I  shall  surely  find  it 
in  his  private  safe  at  the  office." 

"You  have  not  looked  for  it  today?" 

" No.  Why  should  I?" 

Feeling  distinctly  nonplussed,  for  there  was 
no  denying  that  Fenley  had  chosen  the  best  pos- 
sible way  of  carrying  off  a  delicate  situation, 
Winter  turned,  walked  slowly  to  a  window  and 
gazed  down  into  the  street.  He  was  perturbed, 
almost  irritated,  by  a  novel  sense  of  failure  not 
often  associated  with  the  day's  work.  He  had 
to  confess  now  that  he  had  made  no  material 
stride  in  an  inquiry  the  solution  of  which  did 
not  seem,  at  the  outset,  to  offer  any  abnormal 
difficulty. 

True,  there  were  circumstances  which  might 
serve  to  incriminate  Eobert  Fenley ;  but  if  that 
young  man  were  really  responsible  for  the 
crime,  he  was  what  "the  Yard"  classes  pri- 
vately as  a  monumental  idiot,  since  his  subse- 
quent conduct  was  well  calculated  to  arouse  the 
suspicion  which  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion would  try  to  avert.  A  long  experience  of 
the  methods  of  criminals  warned  Winter  of  the 
folly  of  jumping  at  conclusions,  but  he  would 
be  slow  to  admit  and  hard  to  be  convinced  that 
Robert  Fenley  took  any  active  part  in  Ms 
father's  murder. 

Of  course,  it  was  not  with  a  view  toward  in- 
dulging in  a  reverie  that  he  approached  the 
window.  He  was  setting  a  simple  trap,  into 


158  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

which  many  a  man  and  woman  had  fallen.  Any 
one  of  moderately  strong  character  can  control 
face  and  eyes  when  the  need  of  such  discipline 
is  urgent,  but  howsoever  impregnable  the  mask, 
the  strain  of  wearing  it  is  felt,  and  relief  shows 
itself  in  an  unguarded  moment.  At  the  farther 
end  of  the  room  there  was  a  mirror  above  the 
fireplace,  and  as  he  turned  his  back  on  Fenley, 
by  a  hardly  perceptible  inclination  of  his  head 
he  could  catch  the  reflection  of  his  companion's 
face. 

The  maneuver  succeeded,  but  its  result  was 
negative.  Hilton  Fenley 's  eyes  were  downcast. 
He  had  lifted  a  hand  to  his  chin  in  one  of  those 
nervous  gestures  which  had  been  so  noticeable 
during  the  morning's  tumult.  His  face  wore  an 
expression  of  deep  thought.  Indeed,  he  might 
be  weighing  each  word  he  had  heard  and 
uttered,  and  calculating  its  effect  on  his  own 
fortunes. 

Still  obeying  that  unworthy  instinct  which 
bade  him  sting  Fenley  into  defiance,  Winter 
tossed  a  question  over  his  shoulder. 

"May  I  have  a  word  with  Miss  Garth?"  he 
said  suddenly. 

' '  Why  ? ' '  was  the  calm  answer. 

"Just  to  settle  that  telephone  incident  once 
and  for  all." 

"But  if  you  imagine  it  might  not  have  been 
Miss  Garth  who  made  the  call,  why  are  you 
here!" 


COINCIDENCES  159 

Then  the  detective  laughed.  His  wonted  air 
of  cheerful  good  humor  smoothed  the  wrinkles 
from  his  forehead.  He  was  beaten,  completely 
discomfited,  and  he  might  as  well  confess  it  and 
betake  himself  to  some  quarter  where  a  likelier 
trail  could  be  followed. 

*  *  True, ' '  he  said  affably.  *  *  I  need  not  bother 
the  young  lady.  Perhaps  you  will  make  my  ex- 
cuses and  tell  her  that  I  ran  you  to  earth  in 
Gloucester  Mansions  merely  to  save  time.  By 
the  way,  I  led  the  youth  at  the  call  office  to  be- 
lieve that  I  was  searching  for  an  undersized 
Polish  Jewess,  all  nose  and  gold  earrings,  a  de- 
scription which  hardly  applies  to  Miss  Garth. 
And  one  last  question-— do  you  return  to  Roxton 
tonight !" 

"Within  the  hour." 

So  Winter  descended  the  stone  stairs  a  second 
time,  a  prey  to  a  feeling  of  failure.  What  had 
he  gained  by  his  impetuous  actions  ?  He  had  as- 
certained that  Hilton  Fenley  was  on  terms  of 
close  intimacy  with  a  pretty  girl  and  her  mother. 
Nothing  very  remarkable  in  that.  He  had  se- 
cured a  Paris  address  and  the  number  of  a 
baggage  registration  label.  But  similar  infor- 
mation might  be  gleaned  from  a  hundred  thou- 
sand boxes  and  portmanteaux  in  London  that 
day.  He  had  been  told  that  Mortimer  Fenley 
had  made  a  holograph  will.  Such  procedure 
was  by  no  means  rare.  Millions  sterling  have 
been  disposed  of  on  half  sheets  of  note  paper. 


160  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Even  his  Majesty's  judges  have  written  similar 
wills,  and  blundered,  with  the  result  that  a 
brother  learned  in  the  law  has  had  to  decide 
what  the  testator  really  meant.  He  wondered 
whether  or  not  Mortimer  Fenley  had  committed 
some  technical  error,  such  as  the  common  one 
of  creating  a  trust  without  appointing  trustees. 
That  would  be  seen  in  due  course,  when  the  will 
was  probated. 

At  any  rate,  he  grinned  at  his  own  expense. 

"The  only  individual  who  has  scored  today," 
he  said  to  himself,  "is  John  Christopher  Drake, 
alias  Giovanni  Maselli.  I  must  keep  mum  about 
him.  By  gad,  I  believe  I've  compounded  a  fel- 
ony!" 

But  because  he  had  not  scored  inside  Glouces- 
ter Mansions  there  was  no  valid  reason  why 
he  should  not  accomplish  something  in  their  im- 
mediate neighborhood.  For  instance,  who  and 
what  were  the  Garths,  mother  and  daughter? 
He  looked  in  on  a  well-known  dramatic  agent, 
and  raised  the  point.  Eeference  to  a  ledger 
showed  that  Eileen  Garth,  age  eighteen,  tall, 
good-looking,  no  previous  experience,  had  been 
a  candidate  for  musical  comedy,  London  en- 
gagement alone  accepted ;  the  almost  certain  se- 
quel being  that  she  had  kept  her  name  six 
months  on  the  books  without  an  offer  to  secure 
her  valuable  services. 

"I  remember  the  girl  well,"  said  the  agent. 
"She  had  the  makings  of  a  coryphee,  but 


COINCIDENCES  161 

lacked  training.  She  could  sing  a  little,  so  I 
advised  her  to  take  dancing  lessons.  I  believe 
she  began  them,  with  a  teacher  I  recommended, 
but  I've  seen  nothing  of  her  for  a  year  or 
more. ' ' 

"Again  has  Giovanni  filled  the  bill,"  mused 
Winter  as  he  made  for  his  office.  "I  wish  now 
I  had  curbed  my  impulsiveness  and  kept  away 
from  Gloucester  Mansions — the  second  time, 
anyhow." 

Though  chastened  in  spirit,  the  fact  that  no 
news  of  any  sort  awaited  him  at  Scotland 
Yard,  did  not  help  to  restore  his  customary 
poise. 

1  f  Dash  it  all ! "  he  growled.  ' '  I  'm  losing  grip. 
The  next  thing  I'll  hear  is  that  Sheldon  is  en- 
joying himself  at  Earl's  Court  and  that  Fur- 
neaux  has  gone  fishing." 

Restless  and  ill  at  ease,  he  decided  to  ring  up 
The  Towers,  Eoxton.  A  footman  answered  the 
telephone,  and  announced  that  Mr.  Furneaux 
had  "just  come  in." 

"Hello,  Charles,"  said  Winter,  when  a  thin 
voice  squeaked  along  the  line.  "Any  luckf  " 

"Superb!" 

"Good!  I've  drawn  blanks,  regular  round 
O's,  except  three  probably  useless  addresses." 

"Addresses  are  never  useless,  friend.  The 
mere  knowing  of  a  number  in  a  street  picks  out 
that  street  from  all  the  other  streets  where  one 
knows  no  numbers." 


162  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Tell  me  things,  you  rat,  if  conditions  per- 
mit." 

"Well,  I've  hit  on  two  facts  of  profound  im- 
portance. First,  Roxton  contains  an  artist  of 
rare  genius,  and,  second,  it  holds  a  cook  of  ad- 
mitted excellence." 

'  'Look  here " 

"I'm  listening  here,  which  is  all  that  science 
can  achieve  at  present." 

"I'm  in  no  mood  for  ill  timed  pleasantries." 

"But  I'm  not  joking,  'pon  me  honor.  The 
cook,  name  of  Eliza,  does  really  exist,  and  is 
sworn  to  surprise  even  your  jaded  appetite. 
The  artist  is  John  Trenholme.  In  years  to  come 
you'll  boast  of  having  met  him  before  he  was 
famous." 

"So  you,  like  me,  have  done  nothing?" 

"Ah,  I  note  the  bitterness  of  defeat  in  your 
tone.  It  has  warped  your  judgment,  too,  as 
you  will  agree  when  a  certain  dinner  I  have 
arranged  for  tomorrow  night  touches  the 
spot." 

"Can't  you  put  matters  more  plainly!" 

"I'm  guessing  and  planning  and  contriving. 
Like  Galileo,  I  am  convinced  that  the  world 
moves."  Then  Furneaux  broke  into  French. 
"Regarding  those  addresses  you  speak  of,  what 
are  they!" 

Using  the  same  language,  Winter  told  him, 
substituting  "the  Eurasian"  and  "the  motor- 
cyclist" for  names,  and  adding  that  he  was  writ- 


COINCIDENCES  163 

ing  Jacques  Faure,  the  Paris  detective,  with 
reference  to  the  hotel  and  the  label,  the  figures 
on  the  latter  being  of  the  long,  thin,  French 
variety. 

"Are  you  coming  here  tonight?"  went  on 
Furneaux. 

"Do  you  want  me?" 

"I'm  only  a  little  chap,  and  I'd  like  to  have 
you  near  when  it  is  dark. ' ' 

Winter  sighed,  but  it  was  with  relief.  He 
knew  now  that  Furneaux  had  not  failed. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I'll  arrive  by  the 
next  convenient  train. ' ' 

"The  point  is,"  continued  Furneaux,  who  de- 
lighted in  keeping  his  chief  on  tenterhooks  when 
some  new  development  in  the  chase  was  immi- 
nent, "that  the  position  here  requires  handling 
by  a  man  of  your  weight  and  authority.  The 
motor  cyclist  came  back  an  hour  ago,  and  is  now 
walking  in  the  garden  with  the  girl. ' ' 

"The  deuce!  Why  hasn't  Sheldon  re- 
ported?" blurted  out  Winter. 

"Because,  in  all  likelihood,  he  is  watching 
the  other  girl.  Isn't  that  what  you  were  doing? 
Isn't  half  the  battle  won  when  we  find  the 
woman?" 

"I  haven't  set  eyes  on  my  woman." 

"You  surprise  me.  That  kind  of  modest  self- 
effacement  isn't  your  usual  style,  at  all,  at  all, 
as  they  say  in  Cork." 

"Probably  you're  right  about  Sheldon.    He 


164  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

is  a  worker,  not  a  talker  like  some  people  I 
know,"  retorted  Winter. 

"What  very  dull  acquaintances  you  must 
possess!  Workers  are  the  small  fry  who  put 
spouters  into  Parliament,  and  pay  them  £400 
a  year,  and  make  them  Cabinet  Ministers." 

"Evidently  things  have  happened  at  Eoxton, 
or  you  wouldn't  be  so  chirpy.  Well,  so  long! 
See  you  later." 

Having  ascertained  that  an  express  train  was 
timed  to  leave  St.  Pancras  for  Roxton  at  six 
p.  M.,  he  was  packing  a  suitcase  when  a  telegram 
arrived.  It  had  been  handed  in  at  Folkestone 
at  four  thirty,  and  read : 

Decided  to  follow  lady  instead  of  motor  cyclist.  Will  ex- 
plain reasons  verbally.  Reaching  London  seven  o'clock. 

SHELDON. 

"I'm  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  has  ac- 
complished nothing, ' '  was  Winter 's  rueful  com- 
ment. Nor  could  any  critic  have  gainsaid  him, 
for  he  seemed  to  have  been  wasting  precious 
hours  while  his  subordinates  were  making  his- 
tory in  the  Fenley  case. 

He  left  instructions  with  Johnston  that  Mr. 
Sheldon  was  to  write  fully,  care  of  the  Eoxton 
police  station,  and  took  a  cab  for  St.  Pancras. 
He  was  passing  along  the  platform  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Hilton  Fenley  seated  on  the 
far  side  of  a  first-class  carriage,  which  was 
otherwise  untenanted.  An  open  dispatch  box 


COINCIDENCES  165 

lay  beside  him,  and  lie  was  so  engrossed  in  the 
perusal  of  some  document  that  he  gave  no  heed 
to  externals.  Winter  threw  wide  the  door,  and 
entered. 

"We  are  fated  to  meet  today,  Mr.  Fenley," 
he  said  pleasantly.  "First,  you  send  for  me; 
then  I  hunt  you,  and  now  we  come  together  by 
chance.  I  don't  think  coincidence  can  arrange 
any  fourth  way  of  bringing  us  in  touch  today." 

But  he  was  mistaken.  Coincidence  had  al- 
ready done  far  more  than  he  imagined  in  pro- 
viding unseen  clues  to  the  ultimate  clearing  up 
of  a  ghastly  crime,  and  the  same  subtle  law  of 
chance  was  fated  to  assist  the  authorities  once 
more  before  the  sun  rose  again  over  the  trees 
from  whose  cover  Mortimer  Fenley 's  murderer 
had  fired  the  fatal  shot. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEEEIN  AN  AETIST  BECOMES  A  MAN  OF  ACTION 

FUENEAUX  's  visit  left  Trenholme  in  no  happy 
frame  of  mind.  The  man  who  that  morning  had 
not  a  care  in  the  world  was  now  a  prey  to  dis- 
quieting thought.  The  knowledge  that  he  had 
been  close  to  the  scene  of  a  dastardly  murder 
at  the  moment  it  was  committed,  that  he  was  in 
a  sense  a  witness  of  the  crime,  was  depressing 
in  itself,  for  his  was  a  kindly  nature ;  and  the 
mere  fact  that  circumstances  had  rendered  him 
impotent  when  his  presence  might  have  acted  as 
a  deterrent  was  saddening. 

Then,  again,  he  was  worried  by  the  reflection 
that,  no  matter  how  discriminating  the  police 
might  prove  with  regard  to  his  sketch  of  Sylvia 
Manning,  he  would  undoubtedly  be  called  as  a 
witness,  both  at  the  inquest  and  at  the  trial  of 
any  person  arrested  for  the  crime.  It  was  ask- 
ing too  much  of  editorial  human  nature  to  ex- 
pect that  the  magazine  which  had  commissioned 
the  illustrated  article  on  Eoxton  would  not 
make  capital  of  the  fact  that  its  special  artist 
was  actually  sketching  the  house  while  Mr.  Fen- 
ley's  murderer  was  skulking  among  the  trees 
surrounding  it.  Thus  there  was  no  escape  for 

166 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    167 

John  Trenholme.  He  was  doomed  to  become 
notorious.  At  any  hour  the  evening  newspa- 
pers might  be  publishing  his  portrait  and  biog- 
raphy ! 

On  going  downstairs  he  was  cheered  a  little 
by  meeting  an  apologetic  Eliza. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  do  any  reel  'arm,  sir,"  she 
said,  dropping  an  aspirate  in  sheer  emphasis. 

"Any  harm  to  whom,  or  what!"  he  asked. 

"By  talkin'  as  I  did  afore  that  'tec,  sir." 

"All  depends  on  what  you  said  to  him.  If 
you  told  him,  for  instance,  that  I  carry  Brown- 
ing pistols  in  each  pocket,  and  that  my  easel  is  a 
portable  Maxim  gun,  of  course " 

"Oh,  sir,  I  never  try  to  be  funny.  I  mean 
about  the  picter." 

'  '  Good  Heavens !    You,  too ! ' ' 

Eliza  failed  to  understand  this,  but  she  was 
too  subdued  to  inquire  his  meaning. 

"You  see,  sir,  he  must  ha'  heerd  what  I  said 
about  it,  an'  him  skulkin'  there  in  the  passage. 
Do  you  reelly  think  a  hop-o  '-me-thumb  like  that 
can  be  a  Scotland  Yard  man?  It's  my  belief 
he's  a  himpostor." 

It  had  not  dawned  on  Trenholme  that  Fur- 
neaux's  complete  fund  of  information  regard- 
ing the  sketches  had  been  obtained  so  recently. 
He  imagined  that  Police  Constable  Farrow  and 
Gamekeeper  Bates  had  supplied  details,  so  his 
reply  cheered  Eliza. 

"Don't  worry  about  unnecessary  trifles,"  he 


168  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

said.  "Mr.  Furneaux  is  not  only  a  genuine  de- 
tective, but  a  remarkably  clever  one.  You  ought 
to  have  heard  him  praising  the  picture  you 
despised." 

"I  never  did,'*  came  the  vehement  protest. 
"The  picter  is  fine.  It  was  the  young  lady's 
clothes,  or  the  want  of  'em,  that  I  was  con- 
demnin'." 

"I've  seen  four  thousand  ladies  walking 
about  the  sands  at  Trouville  in  far  scantier  at- 
tire." 

"That's  in  France,  isn't  it?"  inquired  Eliza. 

"Yes,  but  France  is  a  more  civilized  country 
than  England." 

Eliza  sniff ed,  sure  sign  of  battle. 

"Not  it,"  she  vowed.  "I've  read  things 
about  the  carryin'  on  there  as  made  me  blood 
boil.  Horse-racin'  on  Sundays,  an'  folks  goin' 
to  theaters  instead  of  church.  France  more 
civilized  than  England,  indeed!  What '11  you 
be  savin'  next!" 

"I'll  be  saying  that  if  our  little  friend  be- 
haves himself  I  shall  ask  him  to  dine  here  to- 
morrow." 

"He's  axed  himself,  Mr.  Trenholme,  an*  he's 
bringing  another  one,  a  big  fellow,  who  knows 
how  to  use  a  carvin '-knife,  he  says.  What 
would  you  like  for  dinner?" 

Trenholme  fled.  That  question  was  becoming 
a  daily  torment.  The  appearance  of  Furneaux 
had  alone  saved  him  from  being  put  on  the 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    169 

culinary  rack  after  luncheon;  having  partaken 
of  one  good  meal,  he  never  had  the  remotest 
notion  as  to  his  requirements  for  the  next. 

He  wandered  through  the  village,  calling  at 
a  tobacconist's,  and  looking  in  on  his  friend 
the  barber.  All  tongues  were  agog  with  won- 
der. The  Fenley  family,  known  to  that  district 
of  Hertfordshire  during  the  greater  part  of  a 
generation,  was  subjected  to  merciless  criticism. 
He  heard  gossip  of  Mr.  Kobert,  of  Mr.  Hilton, 
even  of  the  recluse  wife,  now  a  widow ;  but  every 
one  had  a  good  word  for  "Miss  Sylvia." 

"We  don't  see  enough  of  her,  an'  that's  a 
fact,"  said  the  barber.  "She  must  find  life 
rather  dull,  cooped  up  there  as  she  is,  for  all 
that  it's  a  grand  house  an'  a  fine  park.  They 
never  had  company  like  the  other  big  houses. 
A  few  bald-headed  City  men  an'  their  wives 
for  an  occasional  week  end  in  the  summer  or 
when  the  coverts  were  shot  in  October — never 
any  nice  young  people.  Miss  Sylvia  wept  when 
the  rector's  daughter  got  married  last  year,  an' 
well  I  knew  why — she  was  losin'  her  only 
chum." 

* '  Surely  there  are  scores  of  good  families  in 
this  neighborhood?" 

"Plenty,  sir,  but  nearly  all  county.  The  toffs 
never  did  take  on  the  Fenleys,  an',  to  be  fair, 
I  don't  believe  the  poor  man  who's  dead  ever 
bothered  his  head  about  them." 

"But  Miss  Manning  can  not  have  lived  here 


170  MORTIMER  FENLET 

all  her  life!  She  must  have  been  abroad,  at 
school,  for  instance?" 

"Well,  yes,  sir.  I  remember  her  comin'  home 
from  Brussels  two  years  ago.  But  school  ain't 
society.  The  likes  of  her,  with  all  her  money, 
should  miy  with  her  own  sort." 

"Is  she  so  wealthy,  then?" 

"She's  Mr.  Fenley's  ward,  an'  the  servants 
at  The  Towers  say  she'll  come  in  for  a  heap 
when  she's  twenty-one,  which  will  be  next 
year. ' ' 

Somehow,  this  item  of  gossip,  confirming 
Eliza's  statement,  was  displeasing.  Sylvia 
Manning,  nymph  of  the  lake,  receded  to  some 
dim  altitude  where  the  high  and  mighty  are 
enthroned.  Biting  his  pipe  viciously,  Tren- 
holme  sought  the  solitude  of  a  woodland  foot- 
path, and  tried  to  find  distraction  in  studying 
the  effects  of  diffused  light. 

Returning  to  the  inn  about  tea  time,  he  was 
angered  anew  by  a  telegram  from  the  magazine 
editor.  It  read: 

Nevx  MI  Pictures  -wants  sketches  and  photographs  of  Fenley 
case  and  surroundings.  Have  suggested  you  for  commission. 
Why  not  pick  up  a  tenner?  Rush  drawings  by  train. 

"That's  the  last  straw,"  growled  Trenholme 
fiercely.  He  raced  out,  bought  a  set  of  picture 
postcards  showing  the  village  and  the  Tudor 
mansion,  and  dispatched  them  to  the  editor  of 
News  in  Pictures  with  his  compliments.  Com- 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    171 

ing  back  from  the  station,  he  passed  the  Easton 
lodge  of  The  Towers.  A  daring  notion  seized 
him,  and  he  proceeded  to  put  it  into  practice 
forthwith.  He  presented  himself  at  the  gate, 
and  was  faced  by  Mrs.  Bates  and  a  policeman. 
Taught  by  experience  to  beware  of  strangers 
that  day,  the  keeper's  wife  gazed  at  him 
through  an  insurmountable  iron  palisade.  The 
constable  merely  surveyed  him  with  a  profes- 
sional air,  as  one  who  would  interfere  if  need- 
ful. 

"I  am  calling  on  Miss  Sylvia  Manning,"  an- 
nounced Trenholme  promptly. 

"By  appointment,  sir?" 

"No,  but  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  she 
would  wish  to  see  me." 

"My  orders  are  that  nobody  is  to  be  admitted 
to  the  house  without  written  instructions, 
sir." 

"How  can  Miss  Manning  give  written  in- 
structions unless  she  knows  I  am  here?" 

"Them's  my  orders,"  said  Mrs.  Bates  firmly. 

"But,"  he  persisted,  "it  really  amounts  to 
this — that  you  decide  whether  or  not  Miss  Man- 
ning wishes  to  receive  me,  or  any  other  visitor." 

Mrs.  Bates  found  the  point  of  view  novel. 
Moreover,  she  liked  this  young  man's  smile. 
She  hesitated,  and  temporized. 

"If  you  don't  mind  waitin'  a  minute  till  I 
telephone "  she  said. 

"Certainly.    Say  that  Mr.  John  Trenholme, 


172  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

who  was  sketching  in  the  park  this  morning, 
asks  the  favor  of  a  few  words." 

The  guardian  of  the  gate  disappeared;  soon 
she  came  out  again,  and  unlocked  the  gate. 

"Miss  Manning  is  just  leavin'  the  house,*' 
she  said.  "If  you  walk  up  the  avenue  you'll 
meet  her,  sir." 

Now,  it  happened  that  Trenholme's  request 
for  an  interview  reached  Sylvia  Manning  at  a 
peculiar  moment.  She  had  been  shocked  and 
distressed  beyond  measure  by  the  morning's 
tragedy.  Mortimer  Fenley  was  one  of  those 
men  whom  riches  render  morose,  but  his  man- 
ner had  always  been  kind  to  his  ward.  A  pleas- 
ant fiction  enabled  the  girl  to  regard  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fenley  as  her  "uncle"  and  "aunt,"  and 
the  tacit  relationship  thus  established  served  to 
place  the  financier  and  his  "niece"  on  a  foot- 
ing of  affectionate  intimacy.  Of  late,  however, 
Sylvia  had  been  aware  of  a  splitting  up  of  the 
family  into  armed  camps,  and  the  discovery,  or 
intuition,  that  she  was  the  cause  of  the  rupture 
had  proved  irksome  and  even  annoying. 

Mortimer  Fenley  had  made  no  secret  of  his 
desire  that  she  should  marry  his  younger  son. 
When  both  young  people,  excellent  friends 
though  they  were,  seemed  to  shirk  the  sugges- 
tion, though  by  no  means  actively  opposing  it, 
Fenley  was  angered,  and  did  not  scruple  to 
throw  out  hints  of  coercion.  Again,  the  girl 
knew  that  Hilton  Fenley  was  a  rival  suitor,  and 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    173 

meant  to  defy  his  father's  intent  with  regard 
to  Robert.  Oddly  enough,  neither  of  the  young 
men  had  indulged  in  overt  love-making.  Ac- 
cording to  their  reckoning,  Sylvia's  personal 
choice  counted  for  little  in  the  matter.  Robert 
seemed  to  assume  that  his  ''cousin"  was  merely 
waiting  to  be  asked,  while  Hilton's  attitude  was 
that  of  a  man  biding  his  time  to  snatch  a  prize 
when  opportunity  served. 

Sylvia  herself  hated  the  very  thought  of  mat- 
rimony. The  only  married  couples  of  her  ac- 
quaintance were  either  hopelessly  detached,  like 
Fenley  and  his  wife,  or  uninteresting  people  of 
the  type  which  the  village  barber  had  etched 
so  clearly  for  Trenholme's  benefit.  Whatso- 
ever quickening  of  romance  might  have  crept 
into  such  lives  had  long  yielded  to  atrophy. 
Marriage,  to  the  girl's  imaginative  mind,  was 
synonymous  with  a  dull  and  prosy  middle  age. 
Most  certainly  the  vague  day-dreams  evoked  by 
her  reading  of  books  and  converted  into  allur- 
ing vistas  by  an  ever-widening  horizon  were 
not  sated  by  the  prospect  of  becoming  the  wife 
of  either  of  the  only  two  young  men  she 
knew. 

There  was  a  big  world  beyond  the  confines 
of  Roxton  Park.  There  were  interests  in  life 
that  called  with  increasing  insistence.  In  her 
heart  of  hearts  she  had  decided,  quite  unmistak- 
ably, to  decline  any  matrimonial  project  for 
several  years,  and  while  shrinking  from  a  down- 


174  MORTIMER  FENLEY. 

right  avowal  of  her  intentions,  which  her 
"uncle"  would  have  resented  very  strongly,  the 
fact  that  father  and  sons  were  at  daggers  drawn 
concerning  her  was  the  cause  of  no  slight  feel- 
ing of  dismay,  even  of  occasional  moments  of 
unhappiness. 

She  had  no  one  to  confide  in.  For  reasons 
beyond  her  ken  Mortimer  Fenley  had  set  his 
face  against  any  of  her  school  friends  being  in- 
vited to  the  house,  while  Mrs.  Fenley,  by  reason 
of  an  unfortunate  failing,  was  a  wretched  auto- 
maton that  ate  and  drank  and  slept,  and  alter- 
nated between  brief  fits  of  delirium  and  pro- 
longed periods  of  stupor  induced  by  drugs. 

Still,  until  a  murderous  gunshot  had  torn 
away  the  veil  of  unreality  which  enshrouded  the 
household,  Sylvia  had  contrived  to  avoid  a 
crisis.  All  day,  during  six  days  of  the  week, 
she  was  free  in  her  own  realm.  She  had  books 
and  music,  the  woods,  the  park,  and  the  gardens 
to  occupy  busy  hours.  Unknown  to  any,  her  fa- 
vorite amusement  was  the  planning  of  extensive 
foreign  tours  by  such  simple  means  as  an  atlas 
and  a  set  of  guide  books.  She  had  a  talent  for 
sketching  in  water  color,  and  her  own  sanctum 
contained  a  dozen  or  more  copious  records  of 
imaginary  journeys  illustrated  with  singular  ac- 
curacy of  detail. 

She  was  athletic  in  her  tastes,  too.  She  had 
fitted  up  a  small  gymnasium,  which  she  used 
daily.  At  her  request,  Mortimer  Fenley  had 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    175 

laid  out  a  nine-hole  links  in  the  park,  and  in  her 
second  golfing  year  (the  current  one)  Sylvia  had 
gone  around  in  bogey.  She  would  have  excelled 
in  tennis,  but  Eobert  Fenley  was  so  much  away 
from  home  that  she  seldom  got  a  game,  while 
Hilton  professed  to  be  too  tired  for  strenuous 
exercise  after  long  days  in  the  City.  She  could 
ride  and  drive,  though  forbidden  to  follow  any 
of  the  local  packs  of  fox-hounds,  and  it  has  been 
seen  that  she  was  a  first-rate  swimmer.  Brodie, 
too,  had  taught  her  to  drive  a  motor  car,  and 
she  could  discourse  learnedly  on  silencers  and 
the  Otto  cycle. 

On  the  whole,  then,  she  was  content,  and 
hugged  the  conceit  that  when  she  came  of  age 
she  would  be  her  own  mistress  and  order  her 
life  as  she  chose.  The  solitary  defect  of  any 
real  importance  in  the  scheme  of  things  was 
Mortimer  Fenley 's  growing  insistence  on  her 
marriage  to  Eobert. 

It  was  astounding,  therefore,  and  quite  be- 
wildering, that  Robert  Fenley  should  have  hit 
on  the  day  of  his  father's  death  to  declare  his 
prosaic  passion.  He  had  motored  back  from 
London  about  four  o  'clock.  Hurrying  to  change 
his  clothing  for  the  attire  demanded  by  conven- 
tion in  hours  of  mourning,  he  sent  a  message  to 
Sylvia  asking  her  to  meet  him  at  tea.  After- 
wards he  took  her  into  the  garden,  on  the  pre- 
text that  she  was  looking  pale  and  needed  fresh 
air.  There,  without  the  least  preamble,  he  in- 


176  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

formed  her  that  the  day's  occurrences  had 
caused  him  to  fall  in  unreservedly  with  his 
father's  wishes.  He  urged  her  to  agree  to  a 
quiet  wedding  at  the  earliest  possible  date,  and 
pointed  out  that  a  prompt  announcement  of 
their  pact  would  stifle  any  opposition  on  Hil- 
ton's part. 

Evidently  he  took  it  for  granted  that  if  Bar- 
kis was  willing,  Peggotty  had  no  option  in  the 
matter.  He  forgot  to  mention  such  a  trivial 
element  as  love.  Their  marriage  had  been 
planned  by  the  arbiter  of  their  destinies,  and 
who  were  they  that  they  should  gainsay  that 
august  decision!  Why,  his  father's  death  had 
made  it  a  duty  that  they  owed  to  a  sacred 
memory ! 

Though  Sylvia's  experience  of  the  world  was 
slight,  and  knowledge  of  her  fellow  creatures 
rather  less,  Cousin  Robert's  eagerness,  as  com- 
pared with  his  deficiencies  as  a  wooer,  warned 
her  that  some  hidden  but  powerful  motive  was 
egging  him  on  now.  She  tried  to  temporize,  but 
the  more  she  eluded  him  the  more  insistent  he 
became. 

At  last,  she  spoke  plainly,  and  with  some 
heat. 

"If  you  press  for  my  answer  today  it  is 
'No,'  "  she  said,  and  a  wave  of  color  flooded 
her  pale  cheeks.  "I  think  you  can  hardly  have 
considered  your  actions.  It  is  monstrous  to  talk 
of  marriage  when  my  uncle  has  only  been  dead 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    177 

a  few  hours.  I  refuse  to  listen  to  another 
word." 

Perforce,  Robert  had  left  it  at  that.  He  had 
the  sense  to  bottle  up  his  anger,  at  any  rate  in 
her  hearing ;  perhaps  he  reflected  that  the  break- 
ing of  the  ice  would  facilitate  the  subsequent 
plunge. 

Far  more  disturbed  in  spirit  than  her  digni- 
fied repulse  of  Fenley  had  shown,  Sylvia  re- 
entered  the  house,  passing  the  odd-looking  little 
detective  as  she  crossed  the  hall.  She  took 
refuge  in  her  own  suite,  but  determined  forth- 
with to  go  out  of  doors  again  and  seek  shelter 
among  her  beloved  trees.  Through  a  window, 
as  her  rooms  faced  south,  she  saw  Robert  Fen- 
ley  pacing  moodily  in  the  garden,  where  he  was 
presently  joined  by  the  detective. 

Apparently,  Fenley  was  as  ungracious  and 
surly  of  manner  as  he  knew  how  to  be,  but  Fur- 
neaux  continued  to  chat  with  careless  affability ; 
soon  the  two  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
lake.  That  was  Sylvia's  chance.  She  ran  down- 
stairs and  was  at  the  door  when  a  footman  came 
and  said  that  Mrs.  Bates  wanted  her  on  the  tele- 
phone. 

At  first  she  was  astounded  by  Trenholme's 
message.  Then  sheer  irritation  at  the  crass- 
ness  of  things,  and  perhaps  some  spice  of  femi- 
nine curiosity,  led  her  to  give  the  order  which 
opened  the  gates  of  Roxton  Park  to  a  man  she 
had  never  seen. 


178  MORTIMER  FENLET 

The  two  met  a  few  hundred  yards  down  the 
avenue.  Police  Constable  Farrow,  who  had 
been  replaced  by  another  constable  while  he 
went  home  for  a  meal,  was  on  guard  in  the 
Quarry  Wood  again  until  the  night  men  came 
on  duty,  and  noticed  Miss  Manning  leaving  the 
house.  He  descended  from  his  rock  and  strolled 
toward  the  avenue,  with  no  other  motive  than 
a  desire  to  stretch  his  legs ;  his  perplexity  was 
unbounded  when  he  discovered  Mortimer  Fen- 
ley's  ward  deep  in  conversation  with  the  artist. 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered!"  he  said,  dodging  be- 
hind a  giant  rhododendron.  Whipping  out  a 
notebook  and  consulting  his  watch,  he  solemnly 
noted  time  and  names  in  a  laboriously  accurate 
round  hand.  Then  he  nibbled  his  chin  strap  and 
dug  both  thumbs  into  his  belt.  His  luck  was 
in  that  day.  He  knew  something  now  that  was 
withheld  from  the  Scotland  Yard  swells.  Syl- 
via Manning  and  John  Trenholme  were  ac- 
quaintances. Nay,  more;  they  must  be  old 
friends;  under  his  very  eyes  they  went  off  to- 
gether into  the  park. 

Back  to  his  rock  went  Police  Constable  Far- 
row, puzzled  but  elated.  Was  he  not  a  reposi- 
tory of  secrets  ?  And  that  funny  little  detective 
had  betaken  himself  in  the  opposite  direction! 
Fate  was  kind  indeed. 

He  would  have  been  still  more  surprised  had 
Fate  permitted  him  to  be  also  an  eavesdropper, 
if  listeners  ever  do  drop  from  eaves. 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    179 

Sylvia  was  by  no  means  flurried  when  she 
came  face  to  face  with  Trenholme.  The  female 
of  the  species  invariably  shows  her  superiority 
on  such  occasions.  Trenholme  knew  he  was 
blushing  and  rather  breathless.  Sylvia  was 
cool  and  distant. 

1  'You  are  Mr.  Trenholme,  I  suppose?"  she 
said,  her  blue  eyes  meeting  his  brown  ones  in 
calm  scrutiny. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  trying  desperately  to  collect 
his  wits.  The  well-balanced  phrases  conned 
while  walking  up  the  avenue  had  vanished  in  a 
hopeless  blur  at  the  instant  they  were  needed. 
His  mind  was  in  a  whirl. 

"I  am  Miss  Manning,"  she  continued.  "It 
is  hardly  possible  to  receive  visitors  at  the 
house  this  afternoon,  and  as  I  happened  to  be 
coming  out  when  Mrs.  Bates  telephoned  from 
the  lodge,  I  thought  you  would  have  no  objec- 
tion to  telling  me  here  why  you  wish  to  see 
me." 

"I  have  come  to  apologize  for  my  action  this 
morning,"  he  said. 

"What  action?" 

"I  sketched  you  without  your  knowl- 
edge, and,  of  course,  without  your  permis- 
sion. ' ' 

'  *  You  sketched  me  ?   Where  I ' ' 

"When  you  were  swimming  in  the  lake." 

"You  didn't  dare!" 

"I  did.    I'm  sorry  no\v,  though  you  inspired 


180  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

the  best  picture  I  have  ever  painted,  or  shall 
ever  paint. ' ' 

For  an  instant  Sylvia  forgot  her  personal 
troubles  in  sheer  wonderment,  and  a  ghost  of 
a  smile  brightened  her  white  cheeks.  John 
Trenholme  was  a  person  who  inspired  confi- 
dence at  sight,  and  her  first  definite  emotion 
was  one  of  surprise  that  he  should  look  so  dis- 
consolate. 

' '  I  really  don 't  understand, ' '  she  said.  ' '  The 
quality  of  your  picture  has  no  special  interest 
for  me.  What  I  fail  to  grasp  is  your  motive  in 
trespassing  in  a  private  park  and  watching  me, 
or  any  lady,  bathing.'* 

"Put  that  way,  my  conduct  needs  correcting 
with  a  horsewhip;  but  happily  there  are  other 

points  of  view.  That  is — I  mean Eeally, 

Miss  Manning,  I  am  absurdly  tongue-tied,  but 
I  do  beg  of  you  to  hear  my  explanation. " 

"Have  you  one?" 

"Yes.  It  might  convince  any  one  but  you. 
You  will  be  a  severe  judge,  and  I  hardly  know 
how  to  find  words  to  seek  your  forgiveness,  but 
I — I  was  the  victim  of  circumstances." 

"Please  don't  regard  me  as  a  judge.  At 
present,  I  am  trying  to  guess  what  happened." 

Then  John  squared  his  shoulders  and  tackled 
the  greatest  difficulty  he  had  grappled  with  for 
years. 

"The  simple  truth  should  at  least  sound  con- 
vincing," he  said.  "I  came  to  Roxton  three 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    181 

days  ago  on  a  commission  to  sketch  the  village 
and  its  environment.  This  house  and  grounds 
are  historical,  and  I  applied  for  permission  to 
visit  them,  but  was  refused.  By  chance,  I  heard 
of  a  public  footpath  which  crosses  the  park  close 
to  the  lake " 

Sylvia  nodded.  She,  too,  had  heard  much  of 
that  footpath.  Its  existence  had  annoyed  Mor- 
timer Fenley  as  long  as  she  could  remember 
anything.  That  friendly  little  nod  encouraged 
Trenholme.  His  voice  came  under  better  con- 
trol, and  he  contrived  to  smile. 

"I  was  told  it  was  a  bone  of  contention,"  he 
said,  "but  that  didn't  trouble  me  a  bit,  since 
the  right  of  way  opened  the  forbidden  area.  I 
meant  no  disturbance  or  intrusion.  I  rose  early 
this  morning,  and  would  have  made  my  sketches 
and  got  away  without  seeing  you  if  it  were  not 
for  a  delightful  pair  of  wrought  iron  gates 
passed  en  route.  They  detained  me  three 
quarters  of  an  hour.  Instead  of  reaching  the 
clump  of  cedars  at  a  quarter  to  seven  or  there- 
abouts, I  arrived  at  half  past  seven. 

"I  sketched  the  house  and  lawns  and  then 
turned  to  the  lake.  When  you  appeared  I  imag- 
ined at  first  you  were  coming  to  pitch  into  me 
for  entering  your  domain.  But,  as  I  was  partly 
hidden  by  some  briers  beneath  the  cedars,  you 
never  saw  me,  and,  before  I  realized  what  was 
taking  place,  you  threw  off  your  wraps  and  were 
in  the  water." 


182  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

" Oh! "gasped  Sylvia. 

"Now,  I  ask  you  to  regard  the  situation  im- 
personally," said  Trenholme,  sinking  his  eyes 
humbly  to  the  ground  and  keeping  them  there. 
"I  had  either  to  reveal  my  presence  and  startle 
you  greatly,  or  remain  where  I  was  and  wait 
until  you  went  off  again. 

"Whether  it  was  wise  or  not,  I  elected  for 
the  easier  course.  I  think  I  would  act  similarly 
if  placed  in  the  like  predicament  tomorrow  or 
next  day.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  so  very 
remarkable  in  a  lady  taking  a  morning  swim 
that  an  involuntary  onlooker  should  be  shocked 
or  scandalized  by  it.  You  and  I  were  strangers 
to  each  other.  Were  we  friends,  we  might  have 
been  swimming  in  company. ' ' 

Sylvia  uttered  some  incoherent  sound,  but 
Trenholme,  once  launched  in  his  recital,  meant 
to  persevere  with  it  to  the  bitter  end. 

"I  still  hold  that  I  chose  the  more  judicious 
way  out  of  a  difficult  situation,"  he  said.  "Had 
I  left  it  at  that,  all  would  have  been  well.  But 
the  woman  tempted  me,  and  I  did  eat." 

"Indeed,  the  woman  did  nothing  of  the  sort," 
came  the  vehement  protest. 

"I  speak  in  the  artistic  sense.  You  can  not 
imagine,  you  will  never  know,  what  an  exquisite 
picture  you  and  the  statue  of  Aphrodite  made 
when  mirrored  in  that  shining  water.  I  forgot 
every  consideration  but  the  call  of  art,  which, 
when  it  is  genuine,  is  irresistible,  overwhelm- 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    183 

ing.  Fearing  only  that  you  might  take  one 
plunge  and  go,  I  grabbed  my  palette  and  a  can- 
vas and  began  to  work. 

"I  used  pure  color,  and  painted  as  one  reads 
of  the  fierce  labor  of  genius.  For  once  in  my 
life  I  was  inspired.  I  had  caught  an  effect 
which  I  might  have  sought  in  vain  during  the 
remainder  of  my  life.  I  painted  real  flesh,  real 
water.  Even  the  reeds  and  shrubs  by  the  side 
of  the  lake  were  veritable  glimpses  of  actuality. 
Then,  when  I  had  given  some  species  of  immor- 
tality to  a  fleeting  moment,  you  returned  to  the 
house,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  a  dream  made 
permanent,  a  memory  transfixed  on  canvas,  a 
picture  which  would  have  created  a  sensation  in 
the  Salon " 

"Oh,  surely,  you  would  not  exhibit  me — 
it "  breathed  the  girl. 

' '  No, ' '  he  said  grimly.  * '  That  conceit  is  dead 
and  buried.  But  I  want  you  to  realize  that  dur- 
ing those  few  minutes  I  was  not  John  Tren- 
holme,  an  artist  struggling  for  foothold  on  the 
steep  crags  of  the  painter's  rock  of  endeavor, 
but  a  master  of  the  craft  gazing  from  some  high 
pinnacle  at  a  territory  he  had  won.  If  you  know 
anything  of  painting,  Miss  Manning,  you  will 
go  with  me  so  far  as  to  admit  that  my  indiscre- 
tion was  impersonal.  I,  a  poet  who  expressed 
his  emotions  in  terms  of  color,  was  alone  with 
Aphrodite  and  a  nymph,  on  a  June  morning,  in 
a  leafy  English  park.  I  don't  think  I  should 


184  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

be  blamed,  but  envied.  I  should  not  be  confess- 
ing a  fault,  but  claiming  recognition  as  one  fa- 
vored of  the  gods." 

Trenholme  was  speaking  in  earnest  now,  and 
Sylvia  thrilled  to  the  music  of  his  voice.  But 
if  her  heart  throbbed  and  a  strange  fluttering 
made  itself  felt  in  her  heart,  her  utterance,  by 
force  of  repression,  was  so  cold  and  unmoved 
that  Trenholme  became  more  downcast  than 
ever. 

"I  do  paint  a  little,"  she  said,  "and  I  can 
understand  that  the — er — statue  and  the  lake 
offer  a  charming  subject;  but  I  am  still  at  a 
loss  to  know  why  you  have  thought  fit  to  come 
here  and  tell  me  these  things." 

"It  is  my  wretched  task  to  make  that  clear, 
at  least,"  he  cried  contritely,  forcing  himself 
to  turn  and  look  through  the  trees  at  a  land- 
scape now  glowing  in  the  mellow  light  of  a  de- 
clining sun.  "When  you  had  gone  I  sat  there, 
working  hard  for  a  time,  but  finally  yielding  to 
the  spell  of  an  unexpected  and,  therefore,  a  most 
delightful  romance.  A  vision  of  rare  beauty  had 
come  into  my  life  and  gone  from  it,  all  in  the 
course  of  a  magic  hour.  Is  it  strange  that  I 
should  linger  in  the  shrine? 

"I  was  aroused  by  a  gunshot,  but  little 
dreamed  that  grim  Death  was  stalking  through 
Fairyland.  Still,  I  came  to  my  everyday  senses, 
packed  up  my  sketches  and  color  box,  and 
tramped  off  to  Eoxton,  singing  as  I  went. 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    185 

Hours  afterward,  I  learned  of  the  tragedy 
which  had  taken  place  so  near  the  place  where 
I  had  snatched  a  glimpse  of  the  Hesperides. 
It  was  known  that  I  had  been  in  the  park  at  the 
time.  I  had  met  and  spoken  to  Bates,  your 
head  keeper,  and  the  local  policeman,  Farrow. 

"A  detective  came,  a  man  named  Furneaux; 
a  jolly  clever  chap,  too,  but  a  most  disturbing 
reasoner.  He  showed  me  that  my  drawings — 
the  one  sketch,  at  any  rate,  which  I  held  sacred 
• — would  prove  my  sheet  anchor  when  I  was 
brought  into  the  stormy  waters  of  inquest  and 
law  courts.  It  is  obvious  that  every  person  who 
was  in  that  locality  at  half  past  nine  this  morn- 
ing must  explain  his  or  her  presence  beyond  all 
doubt  or  questioning.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  say, 
of  course,  that  I  was  in  the  park  fully  two  hours, 
from  seven  thirty  A.  M.  onward.  What  was  I  do- 
ing? Painting.  Very  well;  where  is  the  result! 
Is  it  such  that  any  artist  will  testify  that  I  was 
busily  engaged!  Don't  you  see,  Miss  Manning! 
I  must  either  produce  that  sketch  or  stand  con- 
victed of  the  mean  offense  you  yourself  imputed 
to  me  instantly  when  you  heard  of  my  where- 
abouts." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  really  imply  that,"  said  Sylvia, 
and  a  new  note  of  sympathy  crept  into  her  voice. 
"It  would  be  horrid  if — if  you  couldn't  explain; 
and — it  seems  to  me  that  the  sketches — you 
made  more  than  one,  didn't  you! — should  be 
shown  to  the  authorities." 


186  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Trenholme's  face  lit  with  gratitude  because 
of  her  ready  tact.  He  was  sorely  impelled  to 
leave  matters  on  their  present  footing,  but 
whipped  himself  to  the  final  stage. 

"There  is  worse  to  come,"  he  said  miserably. 

' '  Goodness  me !    What  else  can  there  be ! ' ' 

"Mr  Furneaux  has  asked  me — ordered  me,  in 
fact — to  meet  you  by  the  side  of  the  lake  tomor- 
row morning  at  a  quarter  past  nine  and  bring 
the  drawings.  Now  you  know  why  I  have  ven- 
tured to  call  this  afternoon.  I  simply  could  not 
wait  till  I  was  brought  before  you  like  a  collared 
thief  with  the  loot  in  his  possession.'  I  had  to 
meet  you  without  the  intervention  of  a  grinning 
policeman.  When  you  heard  my  plea  I  thought, 
I  hoped,  that  you  might  incline  to  a  less  severe 
view  than  would  be  possible  if  the  matter  came 
to  your  notice  without  warning." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  A  curiously  intro- 
spective look  had  come  into  the  girl's  eyes,  for 
he  had  summoned  up  courage  to  glance  at  her 
again,  and  snatch  one  last  impression  of  her 
winsome  loveliness  before  she  bade  him  be  gone. 

"Where  are  you  staying  in  Eoxton,  Mr.  Tren- 
holme?"  she  asked.  The  unexpected  nature  of 
the  question  almost  took  his  breath  away. 

"At  the  White  Horse  Inn,"  he  said. 

She  pointed  across  the  park. 

"That  farm  there,  Mr.  Jackson's,  lies  nearly 
opposite  the  inn.  I  suppose  the  detective  has 
not  impounded  your  sketch?" 


ARTIST  BECOMES  MAN  OF  ACTION    187 

"No,"  he  murmured,  quite  at  a  loss  to  follow 
her  intent. 

"Well,  Mr.  Jackson  will  let  you  go  and  come 
through  his  farmyard  to  oblige  me.  It  will 
be  a  short  cut  for  you,  too.  If  you  have  no  ob- 
jection, I'll  walk  with  you  to  the  boundary  wall, 
which  you  can  climb  easily. 

"Then  you  might  bring  this  debatable  pic- 
ture, and  let  me  see  it — the  others  as  well,  if 
you  wish.  Wouldn't  that  be  a  good  idea?  I 
mightn't  get  quite  such  a  shock  in  the  morning, 
when  the  detective  man  parades  you  before  me. 
It  is  not  very  late.  I  have  plenty  of  time  to 
stroll  that  far  before  dinner. ' ' 

Hardly  believing  his  ears,  Trenholme  walked 
off  by  her  side.  No  wonder  Police  Constable 
Farrow  was  surprised.  And  still  less  room  was 
there  for  wonder  that  Hilton  Fenley,  driving 
with  Winter  from  the  station,  should  shout  an 
imperative  order  to  Brodie  to  stop  the  car  when 
he  saw  the  couple  in  the  distance. 

"Isn't  that  Miss  Sylvia?"  he  said  harshly, 
well  knowing  there  could  be  only  one  answer. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

"Who  is  the  man  with  her?" 

"Mr.  Trenholme,  the  artist,  from  the  White 
Horse,  sir." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I've  seen  him  several  times  here- 
abouts." 

Fenley  was  in  a  rare  temper  already,  for 


188  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Winter  had  told  him  Brother  Robert  was  at 
home,  a  development  on  which  he  had  by  no 
means  counted.  Now  his  sallow  face  darkened 
with  anger. 

' '  Drive  on ! "  he  said.  ' '  I  gave  orders,  at  your 
request,  Mr  Winter,  that  no  strangers  were  to 
be  admitted.  I  must  see  to  it  that  I  am  obeyed 
in  future.  It  is  surprising,  too,  that  the  police 
are  so  remiss  in  such  an  important  matter." 

For  once,  Winter  was  perforce  silent.  In  his 
heart  of  hearts  he  blamed  Detective  Inspector 
Furneaux. 


CHAPTER  X 

FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  AND  CERTAIN 

FANCIES 

THIS  record  of  a  day  remarkable  beyond  any 
other  in  the  history  of  secluded  Roxton  might 
strike  a  more  cheerful  note  if  it  followed  the 
two  young  people  across  the  park.  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  or  not  Sylvia  Manning's  unpre- 
meditated action  in  accompanying  Trenholme 
was  inspired  by  a  sudden  interest  in  art  or  by 
revolt  against  the  tribulations  which  had  be- 
fallen her.  Of  course  there  is  some  probability 
that  a  full  and  true  account  of  the  conversation 
between  man  and  maid  as  they  walked  the  half 
mile  to  Jackson's  farm  might  throw  a  flood  of 
light  on  this  minor  problem.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
stern  necessity  demands  that  the  chronicle 
should  revert  for  a  time  to  the  sayings  and  do- 
ings of  the  Fenleys  and  the  detectives. 

Despite  a  roundabout  route,  Furneaux  had 
merely  led  Eobert  Fenley  through  the  gardens 
to  the  Quarry  Wood.  Somewhat  to  the  detec- 
tive's surprise,  the  rock  was  unguarded.  The 
two  were  standing  there,  discussing  the  crime, 
when  Police  Constable  Farrow  returned  to  his 
post.  Furneaux  said  nothing — for  some  reason 


190  MORTIMER  FENLET 

he  did  not  emphasize  the  fact  to  his  companion 
that  a  sentry  should  have  been  found  stationed 
there — but  a  sharp  glance  at  the  policeman 
warned  the  latter  that  he  ran  considerable  risk 
of  a  subsequent  reprimand. 

Conscious  of  rectitude,  Farrow  saluted,  and 
produced  his  notebook. 

"I've  just  made  a  memo  of  this,  sir,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  an  entry. 

Furneaux  read: 

Miss  Sylvia  Manning  left  home  6.45  P.M.  Met  Mr.  John 
Trenholme,  artist,  White  Horse  Inn,  in  avenue  6.47  P.W 
The  two  held  close  conversation,  and  went  off  together  across 
park  in  direction  of  Roxton  6.54  P.M.  Lady  wore  no  hat. 
Regarded  incident  as  unusual,  so  observed  exact  times. 

"I  note  what  the  Inspector  says,  and  will  dis- 
cuss the  point  later,"  said  Furneaux,  returning 
the  book.  The  policeman  grinned.  As  between 
Scotland  Yard  and  himself  a  complete  under- 
standing was  established. 

"Have  the  local  police  discovered  anything 
of  importance?"  inquired  Fenley,  who,  now  that 
his  own  affairs  called  for  no  immediate  atten- 
tion, seemed  to  give  more  heed  to  the  manner 
of  his  father's  death.  At  first,  his  manner  to 
Furneaux  had  been  churlish  in  the  extreme. 
Evidently  he  thought  he  could  treat  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Depart- 
ment just  as  he  pleased.  At  this  moment  he 
elected  to  be  gruffly  civil  in  tone. 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  191 

"They  are  making  full  inquiries,  of  course," 
replied  the  detective,  "but  I  think  the  investiga- 
tion will  be  conducted  in  the  main  by  my  De- 
partment   As  I  was  saying,  Mr.  Fenley, 

undoubtedly  the  shot  was  fired  from  this  local- 
ity. Dr.  Stern,  who  is  an  authority  on  bullet 
wounds,  is  convinced  of  that,  even  if  there  was 
no  other  evidence,  such  as  the  chauffeur's  and 
the  artist's  I  told  you  of,  together  with  the  im- 
pressions formed  by  Bates  and  others. ' ' 

"Were  there  no  footprints?"  was  the  next 
question,  and  Fenley  eyed  the  ground  critically. 
He  deemed  those  Scotland  Yard  Johnnies  thick- 
headed chaps,  at  the  best. 

"None  of  any  value.  Since  ten  o'clock,  how- 
ever, dozens  of  new  ones  have  been  made.  That 
is  why  the  policeman  is  keeping  an  eye  on  the 
place — chiefly  to  warn  off  intruders.  Shall  we 
return  to  the  house  I ' ' 

"It's  a  strange  business,"  said  Fenley,  strid- 
ing down  the  slope  by  Furneaux's  side.  "Why 
in  the  world  should  any  one  want  to  shoot  my 
poor  old  guv 'nor?  He  was  straight  as  a  die, 
and  I  don't  know  a  soul  who  had  any  real  griev- 
ance against  him." 

Furneaux  did  not  appear  to  be  listening.  The 
two  were  approaching  the  patch  of  moist  earth 
which  bore  the  impress  of  Robert  Fenley >s  boots. 
"By  the  way,"  he  said  suddenly,  "are  you 
aware  that  there  is  a  sort  of  a  theory  that  your 
father  was  shot  by  a  rifle  belonging  to  you  I" 


192  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"What?"  roared  the  other,  and  it  was  hard 
to  say  whether  rage  or  astonishment  predomi- 
nated in  his  voice.  "Is  that  one  of  Hilton's 
dodges  to  get  me  into  trouble  ? ' ' 

"But  you  do  own  an  Express  rifle,  which  you 
keep  in  your  sitting-room.  Where  is  it  now?" 

"In  the  place  where  it  always  is.  Standing 
in  a  corner  behind  the  bookcase." 

"When  did  you  see  it  last,  Mr.  Fenley?" 

"How  the  deuce  do  I  know?  I  give  it  a  run 
through  with  an  oiled  rag  about  once  a  month. 
It  must  be  nearly  a  month  since  I  cleaned  it." 

"It  has  gone." 

"Gone  where?" 

"I  wish  I  knew." 

"But  who  the  devil  could  have  taken  it?" 

If  ever  a  man  was  floundering  in  a  morass  of 
wrath  and  amazement  it  was  this  loud-voiced 
youngster.  He  was  a  slow-witted  lout,  but  the 
veriest  dullard  must  have  perceived  that  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  weapon  which  presumably 
killed  his  father  was  a  serious  matter  for  its 
owner. 

In  order  to  grasp  this  new  phase  of  the  trag- 
edy in  its  proper  bearings  he  stood  stock  still, 
and  gazed  blankly  into  the  serious  face  of  the 
detective.  Furneaux  knew  he  would  do  that. 
It  was  a  mannerism.  Some  men  can  not  think 
and  move  at  the  same  moment,  and  Robert  Fen- 
ley  was  one. 

Naturally,  young  Fenley  did  not  know  that  he 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  193 

was  leaving  a  new  set  of  footprints  by  the  side 
of  the  others  already  attributed  to  him.  Having 
done  that,  he  was  no  longer  wanted. 

"We'll  solve  every  part  of  the  puzzle  in 
time,"  said  Furneaux  slowly,  moistening  his 
thin  lips  with  his  tongue  as  if  he  were  about  to 
taste  another  glass  of  rare  old-vintage  wine. 

"I  mentioned  the  fact  of  the  gun  being  miss- 
ing to  show  you  how  unwise  you  were  this  morn- 
ing. You  shouldn't  have  bolted  off  as  you  did 
when  Mr.  Winter  requested  you  to  remain.  I 
haven't  the  least  doubt,  Mr.  Fenley,  that  you 
can  prove  you  were  in  London  at  the  time  the 
murder  was  committed,  and  during  some  days 
prior  to  it,  but  the  police  like  these  matters  to 
be  cleared  up ;  if  I  may  give  you  a  hint,  you  '11 
tell  the  Superintendent  that  you  regret  your  be- 
havior, and  show  you  mean  what  you  say  by 
giving  him  all  the  information  he  asks  for. 
Here  he  is  now.  I  hear  Mr.  Hilton's  car,  and 
Mr.  Winter  is  coming  with  him  from  town." 

"Mr.  Hilton's  car?  It's  no  more  his  car 
than  mine.  You  mark  my  words,  there  will  be 
trouble  in  the  family  if  my  brother  starts  boss- 
ing things.  He  hates  me,  and  would  do  me  an 
ill  turn  if  he  could.  Was  it  Hilton  who  spread 
this  story  about  my  gun?" 

"No.  Bather  the  reverse.  He  kept  your 
name  studiously  out  of  it. ' ' 

"Who  was  it,  then?    I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"I  fail  to   recollect   just   how  the  matter 


194  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

cropped  up.  It  was  the  direct  outcome  of  the 
common  observation  of  several  persons  who 
heard  the  report,  and  who  were  able  to  dis- 
criminate between  one  class  of  gun  and  another. 
Anyhow,  there  is  no  occasion  for  you  to  squeal 
before  you  are  hurt.  You  acted  like  a  fool  this 
morning.  Try  and  behave  yourself  more  repu- 
tably now." 

The  prophet  Balaam  was  not  more  taken 
aback  when  rebuked  by  his  ass  than  Eobert  Fen- 
ley  when  Furneaux  turned  and  rent  him  in  this 
fashion.  Hitherto  the  detective's  manner  had 
been  mildness  itself,  so  this  change  of  front 
was  all  the  more  staggering. 

1 '  Oh,  I  say ! ' '  came  the  blustering  protest.  ' '  I 
don't  allow  any  of  you  fellows  to  talk  to  me  like 
that.  I " 

"You'll  hear  worse  in  another  second  if  you 
really  annoy  me, ' '  said  Furneaux.  *  *  Heretofore 
no  one  seems  to  have  troubled  to  inform  you 
what  a  special  sort  of  idiot  you  are.  Though 
your  last  words  to  your  father  were  a  threat 
that  you  were  inclined  to  shoot  him  and  your 
precious  self,  when  you  saw  him  lying  dead  you 
thought  of  nothing  but  your  own  wretched  fol- 
lies, and  bolted  off  to  Hendon  Road,  Battersea, 
instead  of  remaining  here  and  trying  to  help  the 
police. 

"When  I  tell  you  your  gun  is  missing  you 
yelp  about  your  brother's  animosity.  Before 
your  father  is  laid  in  his  grave  you  threaten  to 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  195 

upset  the  household  because  your  brother  acts 
as  its  master.  Why  shouldn't  he?  Are  you 
fitted  to  take  the  reins  or  share  his  responsi- 
bility? If  you  were  at  your  right  job,  Kobert 
Fenley,  you'd  be  carrying  bricks  and  mortar 
in  a  hod;  for  you  haven't  brains  enough  to  lay 
a  brick  or  use  a  trowel." 

The  victim  of  this  outburst  thought  that  the 
little  detective  had  gone  mad,  though  the  refer- 
ence to  Hendon  Eoad  had  startled  him,  and  a 
scared  expression  had  come  into  his  eyes. 

"Look  here "  he  began,  but  Furneaux 

checked  him  again  instantly. 

"I've  looked  at  you  long  enough  to  sum  you 
up  as  a  sulky  puppy, ' '  he  said.  ' '  If  you  had  any 
sort  of  gumption  you  would  realize  that  you 
occupy  a  singularly  precarious  position.  Were 
it  not  for  the  lucky  accident  that  my  colleague 
and  I  were  on  the  spot  this  morning  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  the  county  police  would  have 
arrested  you  at  sight.  Don't  give  us  any  more 
trouble,  or  you'll  be  left  to  stew  in  your  own 
juice.  I  have  warned  you,  once  and  for  all. 
If  you  care  to  swallow  your  spleen  and  amend 
your  manners,  I  shall  try  to  believe  you  are 
more  idiot  than  knave.  At  present  I  am  doubt- 
ful which  way  the  balance  tips." 

Furneaux  stalked  off  rapidly,  leaving  the 
other  to  fume  with  indignation  as  he  followed. 
With  his  almost  uncanny  gift  of  imaginative 
reasoning,  the  Jersey  man  had  guessed  the  pur- 


196  MORTIMER  FENLET 

port  of  Fenley's  talk  with  Sylvia  in  the  garden. 
He  had  watched  the  two  from  a  window  of  the 
dining-room,  and  had  read  correctly  the  girl's 
ill-concealed  scorn,  not  quite  devoid  of  dread,  as 
revealed  by  face  and  gesture.  To  make  sure, 
he  waylaid  her  in  the  hall  while  she  was  hurry- 
ing to  her  own  apartments.  Then  he  sauntered 
after  Robert  Fenley,  and  only  bided  his  time  to 
empty  upon  him  the  vials  of  his  wrath. 

He  had  taken  the  oaf's  measure  with  a  nice 
exactitude.  To  trounce  him  without  frighten- 
ing him  also  was  only  inviting  a  complaint  to 
the  Commissioner,  but  Furneaux  was  well 
aware  that  the  longer  Eobert  Fenley's  dull 
brain  dwelt  on  the  significance  of  that  address 
in  Battersea  being  known  to  the  police,  the  less 
ready  would  he  be  to  stir  a  hornets'  nest  into 
activity  by  showing  his  resentment.  Obviously, 
Furneaux 's  methods  were  not  those  advocated 
in  the  Police  Manual.  Any  other  man  who  prac- 
ticed them  would  risk  dismissal,  but  the 
"  Little  'Un"  of  the  Yard  was  a  law  unto 
himself. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  hurrying  after  the  "Big 
'Un,"  (such,  it  will  be  recalled,  were  the  re- 
spective nicknames  Furneaux  and  Winter  had 
received  in  the  Department)  who  had  alighted 
from  the  car,  and  was  listening  to  Hilton  Fenley 
berating  a  servant  for  having  permitted  Tren- 
holme  to  make  known  his  presence  to  Miss  Man- 
ning. The  man,  however,  protested  that  he  had 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  197 

done  nothing  of  the  sort.  Miss  Sylvia  had  been 
called  to  the  lodge  telephone,  and  the  footman's 
acquaintance  with  the  facts  went  no  farther. 
Smothering  his  annoyance  as  best  he  could,  Fen- 
ley  rang  up  Mrs.  Bates  and  asked  for  particu- 
lars. When  the  woman  explained  what  had 
happened,  he  rejoined  Winter  in  the  hall,  pay- 
ing no  heed  to  Furneaux,  who  was  entering  at 
the  moment. 

1  'That  artist  fellow  who  was  trespassing  in 
the  park  this  morning — if  nothing  worse  is 
proved  against  him — must  have  a  superb 
cheek,"  he  said  angrily.  "He  actually  had  the 
impertinence  to  ask  Miss  Manning  to  meet  him, 
no  doubt  offering  some  plausible  yarn  as  an  ex- 
cuse. I  hope  you'll  test  his  story  thoroughly, 
Mr.  Winter.  At  the  least,  he  should  be  forced 
to  say  what  he  was  doing  in  these  grounds  at 
such  an  unusual  hour." 

"He  is  putting  himself  right  with  Miss  Man- 
ning now,"  broke  in  Furneaux. 

"Putting  himself  right  with  Miss  Manning? 
What  the  deuce  do  you  mean,  sir?"  Fenley 
could  snarl  effectively  wnen  in  the  mood,  and 
none  might  deny  his  present  state  of  irritation, 
be  the  cause  what  it  might. 

"That  young  lady  is  the  only  person  to  whom 
he  owes  an  explanation.  He  is  giving  it  to  her 
now." 

"Will  you  kindly  be  more  explicit?" 

Furneaux  glanced  from  his  infuriated  ques- 


198  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

tioner  to  Winter,  his  face  one  note  of  mild  in- 
terrogation and  non-comprehension. 

"Keally,  Mr.  Fenley,  I  have  said  the  same 
thing  in  two  different  ways,"  he  cried.  "As  a 
rule  I  contrive  to  be  tolerably  lucid  in  my  re- 
marks— don't  I,  Mr.  Kobert?"  for  the  younger 
Fenley  had  just  come  in. 

"What's  up  now?"  was  Eobert's  non-com- 
mittal answer. 

For  some  reason  his  b  other  did  not  reply, 
but  Furneaux  suddenly  grew  voluble. 

"Of  course,  you  haven't  heard  that  an  artist 
named  Trenholme  was  painting  near  the  lake 
this  morning  when  your  father  was  killed,"  he 
said.  "Fortunately,  he  was  there  before  and 
after  the  shot  was  fired.  He  can  prove,  almost 
to  a  yard,  the  locality  where  the  murderer  was 
concealed.  In  fact,  he  is  coming  here  tomorrow, 
at  my  request,  to  go  over  the  ground  with  me. 

"An  interesting  feature  of  the  affair  is  that 
Mr.  Trenholme  is  a  genius.  I  have  never  seen 
better  work.  One  of  his  drawings,  a  water 
color,  has  all  the  brilliancy  and  light  of  a  David 
Cox,  but  another,  in  oil,  is  a  positive  master- 
piece. It  must  have  been  done  in  a  few  minutes, 
because  Miss  Manning  did  not  know  he  was  sit- 
ting beneath  the  cedars,  and  it  is  unreasonable 
to  suppose  that  she  would  preserve  the  same 
pose  for  any  length  of  time — sufficiently  long, 
that  is " 

"Did  the  bounder  paint  a  picture  of  Sylvia 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  199 

bathing?"  broke  in  Robert,  his  red  face  purple 
with  rage. 

"  Allow  me  to  remind  you  that  you  are  speak- 
ing of  a  painter  of  transcendent  merit,"  said 
Furneaux  suavely. 

"When  I  meet  him  I'll  give  him  a  damned 
good  hiding." 

"He's  rather  tall  and  strongly  built." 

"I  don't  care  how  big  he  is,  I'll  down 
him." 

"Oh,  stop  this  pothouse  talk,"  put  in  Hilton, 
giving  the  blusterer  a  contemptuous  glance. 
"Mr.  Furneaux,  you  seem  primed  with  infor- 
mation. Why  should  Mr.  Trenholme,  if  that  is 
his  name,  have  the  audacity  to  call  on  Miss  Man- 
ning? He  might  have  the  impudence  to  skulk 
among  the  shrubs  and  watch  a  lady  batjimg, 
but  I  fail  to  see  any  motive  for  his  visit  to  The 
Towers  this  evening." 

Furneaux  shook  his  head.  Evidently  the 
point  did  not  appeal  to  him. 

"There  is  no  set  formula  that  expresses  the 
artistic  temperament, ' '  he  said.  * '  The  man  who 
passes  whole  years  in  studying  the  nude  is  often 
endowed  with  a  very  high  moral  sense.  Mr. 
Trenholme,  though  carried  away  by  enthusiasm 
this  morning,  may  be  consumed  with  remorse 
tonight  if  he  imagines  that  the  lady  who  formed 
the  subject  of  his  sketch  is  likely  to  be  distressed 
because  of  it. 

"I  fear  I  am  to  blame.    I  stopped  Mr.  Tren- 


200  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

holme  from  destroying  the  picture  today.  He 
meant  burning  it,  since  he  had  the  sense  to  real- 
ize that  he  would  be  summoned  as  a  witness,  not 
only  at  tomorrow's  inquest,  but  when  the  affair 
comes  before  the  courts.  I  was  bound  to  point 
out  that  the  drawings  supplied  his  solitary  ex- 
cuse for  being  in  the  locality  at  all.  He  saw 
that — unwillingly,  it  is  true,  but  with  painful 
clearness — so  I  assume  that  his  visit  to  Miss 
Manning  was  expiatory,  a  sort  of  humble 
obeisance  to  a  goddess  whom  he  had  offended 
unwittingly.  I  assume,  too,  that  his  plea  for 
mercy  has  not  proved  wholly  unsuccessful  or 
Miss  Manning  would  not  now  be  walking  with 
him  across  the  park. '  ' 

"What!"  roared  Eobert.  He  turned  to  the 
gaping  footman,  for  the  whole  conversation  had 
taken  place  in  the  hall.  "Which  way  did  Miss 
Sylvia  go  ? "  he  cried. 

"Down  the  avenue,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "I 
saw  Miss  Sylvia  meet  the  gentleman,  and  after 
some  talk  they  went  through  the  trees  to  the 
right." 

Eobert  raced  off.  Winter,  who  had  not  inter- 
fered hitherto,  because  Furneaux  always  had  a 
valid  excuse  for  his  indiscretions,  made  as  if  he 
would  follow  and  restrain  the  younger  Fenley; 
but  Furneaux  caught  his  eye  and  winked.  That 
sufficed.  The  Superintendent  contented  himself 
with  gazing  after  Robert  Fenley,  who  ran  along 
the  avenue  until  clear  of  the  Quarry  Wood, 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  201 

when  he,  too,  plunged  through  the  line  of  elms 
and  was  lost  to  sight. 

Hilton  watched  his  impetuous  brother  with 
a  brooding  underlook.  He  still  held  in  his  hand 
a  leather  portfolio  bulging  with  papers,  some  of 
which  he  had  placed  there  when  Winter  opened 
the  door  of  the  railway  coach  in  St.  Pancras  sta- 
tion. The  footman  offered  to  relieve  him  of  it, 
but  was  swept  aside  with  a  gesture. 

1  'I  have  never  known  Eobert  so  excited  and 
erratic  in  his  movements  as  he  has  been  today," 
he  said  at  last.  "I  hope  he  will  not  engage  in 
a  vulgar  quarrel  with  this  Mr.  Trenholme,  es- 
pecially in  Miss  Manning's  presence." 

Apparently  he  could  not  quite  control  his 
voice,  in  which  a  sense  of  unctuous  amusement 
revealed  itself.  Furneaux  could  not  resist  such 
an  opportunity.  He  had  pierced  Kobert's  thick 
skin;  now  he  undertook  a  more  delicate  opera- 
tion. 

"That  would  be  doubly  unfortunate,"  he 
said,  chuckling  quietly.  "If  I  am  any  judge  of 
men,  Mr.  Robert  Fenley  would  meet  more  than 
his  match  in  our  artist  friend,  while  he  would 
certainly  undo  all  the  good  effect  of  an  earlier 
and  most  serious  and  convincing  conversation 
with  the  young  lady." 

Hilton  swung  around  on  him. 

"When  did  my  brother  return  from  Lon- 
don!" he  asked. 

"Shortly  before  five  o'clock.    He  and  Miss 


202  MORTIMER  FENLET 

Manning  had  tea  together,  and  afterward 
strolled  in  the  gardens.  I  don't  wonder  at  any 
artist  wishing  to  sketch  Miss  Manning?  Do 
you?  If  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  it,  I  have 
never  seen  a  more  graceful  and  charming  girl." 

"May  I  inquire  if  you  have  made  any  prog- 
ress in  the  particular  inquiry  for  which  I 
brought  you  here?" 

Hilton  Fenley  spoke  savagely.  He  meant  to 
be  offensive,  since  the  innuendo  was  unmistak- 
able. Apparently  Furneaux's  remarks  had 
achieved  some  hypodermic  effect. 

1 '  Oh,  yes, ' '  was  the  offhand  answer.  1 1 1  have 
every  reason  to  believe  that  Mr.  Winter  and  I 
will  make  an  arrest  without  undue  loss  of  time." 

1 '  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Thus  far  your  methods 
have  not  inspired  the  confidence  I,  as  a  member 
of  the  public,  was  inclined  to  repose  in  Scotland 
Yard.  I  am  going  to  my  rooms  now,  and  dine 
at  a  quarter  to  eight.  About  nine  o'clock  I 
wish  to  go  into  matters  thoroughly  with  Mr. 
Winter  and  you.  At  present,  I  think  it  only  fair 
to  say  that  I  am  not  satisfied  with  the  measures, 
whatever  they  may  be,  you  have  seen  fit  to 
adopt." 

He  seemed  to  await  a  retort,  but  none  came, 
so  he  strode  across  the  hall  and  hurried  up  the 
stairs.  Furneaux  continued  to  gaze  blankly 
down  the  long,  straight  avenue,  nor  did  he  utter 
a  word  till  a  door  opened  and  closed  on  the  first 
floor  in  the  southeast  corner. 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  203 

Then  he  spoke. 

"Some  people  are  very  hard  to  please,"  he 
said  plaintively. 

Winter  beckoned  to  the  footman. 

"Do  you  mind  asking  Mr.  Tomlinson  if  he 
can  come  here  for  a  moment?"  he  said.  When 
the  man  disappeared  he  muttered — 

"Why  are  you  stroking  everybody's  fur  the 
wrong  way,  Charles?" 

"A  useful  simile,  James.  If  they  resemble 
cats  we  may  see  sparks,  and  each  of  those  young 
men  has  something  of  the  tiger  in  him." 

"But  things  have  gone  horribly  wrong  all 
day — after  a  highly  promising  start,  too.  I 
don't  see  that  we  are  any  nearer  laying  hands 
on  a  murderer  because  we  have  unearthed  vari- 
ous little  scandals  in  the  lives  of  Mortimer  Fen- 
ley's  sons.  And  what  game  are  you  playing 
with  this  artist,  Trenholme?" 

"The  supremely  interesting  problem  just  now 
is  the  game  which  he  is  playing  with  Robert 
Fenley.  If  that  young  ass  attacks  him  he'll  get 
the  licking  he  wants,  and  if  you're  in  any  doubt 
about  my  pronouns " 

"Oh,  dash  you  and  your  pronouns!  Here's 
Tomlinson.  Quick!  Have  you  a  plan  of  any 
sort?" 

"Three!  Three  separate  lines  of  attack,  each 
deadly.  But  there  are  folk  whose  mental  equip- 
ment renders  them  incapable  of  understanding 
plain  English.  Now,  my  friend  Tomlinson  will 


204  MORTIMER  FENLE7-. 

show  you  what  I  mean.  I'll  ask  him  a  simple 
question,  and  he  will  give  you  a  perfect  example 
of  a  direct  answer.  Tomlinson,  can  you  tell  me 
what  the  extrados  of  a  voussoir  is?" 

' '  No,  Mr.  Furneaux,  I  can  not, ' '  said  the  but- 
ler, smiling  at  what  he  regarded  as  the  little 
man's  humor. 

I  'There!"      cried      Furneaux      delightedly. 
" Ain't  I  a  prophet?    No  evasions  about  Tom- 
linson, are  there?" 

"I  think  you're  cracked,"  growled  Winter, 
picking  up  his  suitcase.  " If  I'm  to  stay  here  to- 
night, I  shall  want  a  room  of  some  sort.  Mr. 
Tomlinson,  can  you " 

I 1  Share  mine, ' '  broke  in  Furneaux.    ' '  I  'm  the 
quietest  sleeper  living.    Our  friend  here  is  sure 
to   have   at  disposal   a  room   with   two   beds 
in  it." 

"The  principal  guest  room  is  unoccupied," 
said  the  butler. 

"Where  is  it?" 

"On  the  first  floor,  sir,  facing  south." 

"Couldn't  be  better.  The  very  thing.  Ah! 
Here  comes  my  baggage."  And  the  others 
saw  a  policeman  bicycling  up  the  avenue,  with 
a  small  portmanteau  balanced  precariously  be- 
tween the  handlebars  and  the  front  buttons  of 
his  tunic. 

"You  gentlemen  will  dine  in  my  room,  I 
hope?"  said  Tomlinson,  when  he  had  escorted 
them  upstairs. 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  205 

"We  are  not  invited  to  the  family  circle,  at 
any  rate,"  said  Winter. 

""Well,  you  will  not  suffer  on  that  account," 
announced  Tomlinson  genially.  "Of  course,  I 
shall  not  have  the  pleasure  of  sharing  the  meal 
with  you,  but  dinner  will  be  served  at  a  quarter 
to  eight.  Mr.  Furneaux  knows  his  way  about 
the  house,  so,  with  your  permission,  I'll  leave 
you  at  present.  If  you're  disengaged  at  nine 
thirty  I'll  be  glad  to  see  you  in  my  sanctum." 

"Isn't  he  a  gem?"  cried  Furneaux,  when  the 
door  had  closed,  and  he  and  Winter  were 
alone. 

Winter  sat  down  on  the  side  of  a  bed.  He 
was  worried,  and  did  not  strive  to  hide  it. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  distrustful 
of  himself,  and  he  suspected,  too,  that  Furneaux 
was  only  covering  abject  failure  by  a  display  of 
high  spirits. 

"Why  so  pensive  an  attitude,  James?"  in- 
quired the  other  softly.  "Are  you  still  wonder- 
ing what  the  extrados  of  a  voussoir  is!" 

"I  don't  care  a  tuppenny  damn  what  it  is." 

"But  that's  where  you're  wrong.  That's 
where  you're  crass  and  pig-headed.  The  ex- 
trados of  a  voussoir " 

"Oh,  kill  it,  and  let  it  die  happy " 

" — Is  the  outer  curve  of  a  wedge-shaped 
stone  used  for  building  an  arch.  Now,  mark 
you,  those  are  words  of  merit.  Wedge,  arch — 
wedges  of  fact  which  shall  construct  the  arch  of 


206  MORTIMER  FENLEYi 

evidence.  We'll  have  our  man  in  the  dock 
across  that  bridge  before  we  are  much  older." 

"Confound  it,  how?  He  couldn't  be  in  his 
bedroom  and  in  the  Quarry  Wood,  four  hundred 
yards  away,  at  one  and  the  same  moment." 

Furneaux  gazed  fixedly  at  his  friend's  fore- 
head, presumably  the  seat  of  reason. 

"  Sometimes,  James,  you  make  me  gasp  with 
an  amazed  admiration,"  he  cooed.  "You  do, 
really.  You  arrive  at  the  same  conclusion  as  I, 
a  thinker,  without  any  semblance  of  thought 
process  on  your  part.  How  do  you  manage  it? 
Is  it  through  association  with  me?  You  know, 
there 's  such  a  thing  as  inductive  electricity.  A 
current  passing  through  a  highly  charged  wire 
can  excite  another  wire,  even  a  common  iron 
one,  without  actual  contact." 

"I've  had  a  rotten  afternoon,  and  don't  feel 
up  to  your  far-fetched  jokes  just  now;  so  if 
you  have  nothing  to  report,  shut  up,"  said  the 
Superintendent  crossly. 

"Then  I'll  cheer  your  melancholy  with  a  bit 
of  real  news  brightened  by  imagination,"  an- 
swered Furneaux  promptly.  "Hilton  Fenley 
couldn't  have  fired  the  rifle  himself,  except  by 
certain  bizarre  means  which  I  shall  lay  before 
the  court  later;  but  he  planned  and  contrived 
the  murder,  down  to  the  smallest  detail.  He 
wore  Brother  Robert's  boots  when  available; 
from  appearances  Brother  Robert  is  now  wear- 
ing the  identical  pair  which  made  those  foot- 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  207 

prints  we  saw,  but  I  shall  know  in  the  morning, 
for  that  fiery  young  sprig  obligingly  left  an- 
other well-marked  set  of  prints  in  the  same 
place  twenty  minutes  ago.  When  circumstances 
compelled  Hilton  to  walk  that  way  in  his  own 
boots,  he  slipped  on  two  roughly  made  mocca- 
sins, which  he  burned  last  night,  having  no  fur- 
ther use  for  them.  Therefore,  he  knew  the  mur- 
der would  take  place  this  morning. 

1  'I've  secured  shreds  of  the  sacking  out  of 
which  he  made  the  pads  to  cover  his  feet;  and 
an  under  gardener  remembers  seeing  Mr.  Hil- 
ton making  off  with  an  empty  potato  sack  one 
day  last  week,  and  wondering  why  he  wanted  it. 
During  some  mornings  recently  Hilton  Fenley 
breakfasted  early  and  went  out,  but  invariably 
had  an  excuse  for  not  accompanying  his  father 
to  the  City.  He  was  then  studying  the  details 
of  the  crime,  making  sure  that  an  expert,  armed 
with  a  modern  rifle,  could  not  possibly  miss  such 
a  target  as  a  man  standing  outside  a  doorway, 
and  elevated  above  the  ground  level  by  some 
five  feet  or  more. 

"No  servant  could  possibly  observe  that  Mr. 
Hilton  was  wearing  Mr.  Robert 's  boots,  because 
they  do  not  differ  greatly  in  size ;  but  luckily  for 
us,  a  criminal  always  commits  an  error  of  some 
sort,  and  Hilton  blundered  badly  when  he  made 
those  careful  imprints  of  his  brother's  feet,  as 
the  weather  has  been  fine  recently,  and  the  only 
mud  in  this  locality  lies  in  that  hollow  of  the 


208  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Quarry  Wood.  It  happens  that  some  particles 
of  that  identical  mud  were  imbedded  in  the  car- 
pet of  Hilton  Fenley's  sitting-room.  I'm  sorry 
to  have  to  say  it,  because  the  housemaid  is  a 
nice  girl." 

"Never  mind  the  housemaid.    Go  on." 

"Exactly  what  the  housemaid  would  remark 
if  she  heard  me ;  only  she  would  giggle,  and  you 
look  infernally  serious.  Next  item :  Hilton  Fen- 
ley,  like  most  high-class  scoundrels,  has  the 
nerves  of  a  cat,  with  all  a  cat's  fiendish  bru- 
tality. He  could  plan  and  carry  out  a  callous 
crime  and  lay  a  subtle  trail  which  must  lead  to 
that  cry  baby,  Robert,  but  he  was  unable  to  con- 
trol his  emotions  when,  he  saw  his  father's 
corpse.  That  is  where  the  murderer  nearly  al- 
ways fails.  He  can  never  picture  in  death  that 
which  he  hated  and  doomed  in  life.  There  is  an 
element  in  death " 

' '  Chuck  it ! "  said  Winter  unfeelingly. 

Furneaux  winced,  and  affected  to  be  deeply 
hurt. 

"The  worst  feature  of  service  in  Scotland 
Yard  is  its  demoralizing  effect  on  the  finer  sen- 
timents," he  said  sadly.  "Men  lose  all  human 
instincts  when  they  become  detectives  or  news- 
paper reporters.  Now  the  ordinary  policeman 
ofttimes  remains  quite  soft-hearted.  For  in- 
stance, Police  Constable  Farrow,  though  preen- 
ing himself  on  being  the  pivot  on  which  this  case 
revolves,  was  much  affected  by  Hilton  Fenley's 


FURNEAUX  STATES  SOME  FACTS  209 

first  heart-broken  words  to  him.  'Poor  young 
gentleman,'  said  Farrow,  when  we  were  discuss- 
ing the  affair  this  afternoon,  'he  was  cut  up 
somethink  orf  ul.  I  didn  't  think  he  had  it  in  him, 
s'elp  me,  I  didn't.  Tole  me  to  act  for  the  best. 
Said  some  one  had  fired  a  bullet  which  nearly 
tore  his  father  to  pieces. ' 

"There  was  more  of  the  same  sort  of  thing, 
and  I  got  Farrow  to  jot  down  the  very  words  in 
his  notebook*  Of  course,  he  doesn't  guess  why. 
.  .  .  Now,  I  wonder  how  Hilton  Fenley  knew 
the  effect  of  that  bullet  on  his  father's  body. 
The  doctor  had  not  arrived.  There  had  been 
only  a  superficial  examination  by  Tomlinson  of 
the  orifice  of  the  wound.  What  other  mind  in 
Eoxton  would  picture  to  itself  the  havoc  caused 
by  an  expanding  bullet  I  The  man  who  uttered 
those  words  knew  what  sort  of  bullet  had  been 
used.  He  knew  it  would  tear  his  father's  body 
to  pieces.  A  neurotic  imagination  was  at  work, 
and  that  cry  of  horror  was  the  soul's  uncon- 
scious protest  against  the  very  fiendishness  of 
its  own  deed.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  yes.  Let  these  Fenleys  quarrel  about 
that  girl,  and  we  '11  see  Hilton  marching  steadily 
toward  the  Old  Bailey.  Of  course,  we  '11  assist 
him.  We'll  make  certain  he  doesn't  deviate  or 
falter  on  the  road.  But  he'll  follow  it,  and  of 
his  own  accord ;  and  the  first  long  stride  will  be 
taken  when  he  goes  to  the  Quarry  Wood  to  re- 
trieve the  rifle  which  lies  hidden  there." 


210  MORTIMER  FENLEX 

Winter  whistled  softly.  Then  he  looked  at 
his  watch. 

"By  Jove !    Turned  half  past  seven, ' '  he  said. 

"Ha!"  cackled  Furneaux.  "James  is  him- 
self again.  We  have  hardly  a  scrap  of  evidence, 
but  that  doesn't  trouble  our  worthy  Superin- 
tendent a  little  bit,  and  he'll  enjoy  his  dinner 
far  better  than  he  thought  possible  ten  min- 
utes ago.  8 acre  nom  d'une  pipe!  By  the  time 
you've  tasted  a  bottle  from  Tomlinson's  fa- 
vorite bin  you'll  be  preparing  a  brief  for  the 
Treasury  solicitor ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XI 

SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING 

Now,  perhaps,  taking  advantage  of  an  inter- 
val while  the  representatives  of  Scotland  Yard 
sought  the  aid  of  soap  and  water  as  a  prelimi- 
nary to  a  meal,  it  is  permissible  to  wander  in 
the  gloaming  with  Sylvia  Manning  and  her 
escort.  To  speak  of  the  gloaming  is  a  poetic 
license,  it  is  true.  Seven  o'clock  on  a  fine  sum- 
mer evening  in  England  is  still  broad  daylight, 
but  daylight  of  a  quality  that  lends  itself  ad- 
mirably to  the  exigencies  of  romance.  There  is 
a  species  of  dreaminess  in  the  air.  The  land- 
scape assumes  soft  tints  unknown  to  a  fiery  sun. 
Tender  shadows  steal  from  undiscovered 
realms.  It  is  permissible  to  believe  that  every 
night  on  Parnassus  is  a  night  in  June. 

At  first  these  two  young  people  were  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  to  talk  about.  By  tacit  con- 
sent they  ignored  the  morning's  tragedy,  yet 
they  might  not  indulge  in  the  irresponsible  chat- 
ter which  would  have  provided  a  ready  resource 
under  normal  conditions.  Luckily  Trenholme 
remembered  that  the  girl  said  she  painted. 

"It  is  a  relief  to  find  that  you  also  are  of 
the  elect,"  he  said.  "An  artist  will  look  at  my 
211 


212  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

pictures  with  the  artist's  eye.  There  are  other 
sorts  of  eyes — Eliza's,  for  instance.  Do  you 
know  Eliza,  of  the  White  Horse?" 

Sylvia  collected  her  wits,  which  were  wool- 
gathering. 

"I  think  I  have  met  her  at  village  bazaars  and 
tea  fights,"  she  said.  "Is  she  a  stout,  red-faced 
woman?" 

"Both,  to  excess;  but  her  chief  attribute  is 
her  tongue,  which  has  solved  the  secret  of  per- 
petual motion.  Had  it  kept  silent  even  for  a 
few  seconds  at  lunch  time  .today,  that  sharp- 
eyed  and  rabbit-eared  detective  would  never 
have  known  of  the  second  picture — your  picture 
— because  I  can  eke  out  my  exhibits  by  a  half 
finished  sketch  of  the  lake  and  a  pencil  note  of 
the  gates.  But  putting  the  bits  of  the  puzzle 
together  afterwards,  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Mary,  our  kitchen  maid,  passed  my  room, 
saw  the  picture  on  the  easel  and  was  scandal- 
ized. She  of  course  told  Eliza,  who  went  to  be 
shocked  on  her  own  account,  and  then  came 
downstairs  and  pitched  into  me.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  Scotland  Yard  man  turned  up." 

"Is  it  so  very — dreadful,  then!" 

"Dreadful!  It  may  fall  far  short  of  the 
standard  set  by  my  own  vanity ;  but  given  any 
sort  of  skill  in  the  painter,  how  can  a  charm- 
ing study  of  a  girl  in  a  bathing  costume,  stand- 
ing by  the  side  of  a  statue  of  Aphrodite,  be 
dreadful?  Of  course,  Miss  Manning,  you  can 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  213 

hardly  understand  the  way  in  which  a  certain 
section  of  the  public  regards  art.  In  studio 
jargon  we  call  it  the  *  Oh,  ma ! '  crowd,  that  being 
the  favorite  exclamation  of  the  young  ladies 
who  peep  and  condemn.  These  people  are  the 
hopeless  Philistines  who  argue  about  the  sex  of 
angels,  and  demand  that  nude  statues  shall  be 
draped.  But  my  picture  must  speak  for  itself. 
Tell  me  something  about  your  own  work.  Are 
you  taking  up  painting  seriously?" 

Now,  to  be  candid,  Sylvia  herself  was  not 
wholly  emancipated  from  the  state  of  Philis- 
tinism which  Trenholme  was  railing  at.  Had 
he  been  less  eager  to  secure  a  favorable  verdict, 
or  even  less  agitated  by  the  unlooked-for  con- 
descension she  was  showing,  he  would  have  seen 
the  absurdity  of  classing  a  girl  of  twenty  with 
the  lovers  of  art  for  art's  sake,  those  earnest- 
eyed  enthusiasts  who  regard  a  perfect  curve  or 
an  inimitable  flesh  tint  as  of  vastly  greater  im- 
portance than  the  squeamishness  of  the  young 
person.  Painters  have  their  limitations  as  well 
as  Mrs.  Grundy,  and  John  Trenholme  did  not 
suffer  a  fool  gladly. 

Sylvia,  however,  had  the  good  sense  to  realize 
that  she  was  listening  to  a  man  whose  finer 
instincts  had  never  been  trammeled  by  conven- 
tions which  might  be  wholesome  in  an  academy 
for  young  ladies.  Certainly  she  wondered  what 
sort  of  figure  she  cut  in  this  much  debated  pic- 
ture, but  that  interesting  point  would  be  deter- 


214  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

mined  shortly.  Meanwhile  she  answered  de- 
murely enough : 

"I'm  afraid  you  have  taken  me  too  seriously. 
I  have  hardly  progressed  beyond  the  stage 
where  one  discovers,  with  a  sort  of  gasp,  that 
trees  may  be  blue  or  red,  and  skies  green. 
Though  I  am  going  to  look  at  your  pictures, 
Mr.  Trenholme,  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
I  shall  ever  dare  to  show  you  any  of 
mine." 

"Still,  I  think  you  must  have  the  artistic 
soul,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"Why?" 

"There  was  more  than  mere  physical  delight 
in  your  swimming  this  morning.  You  reveled 
in  the  sunlight,  in  the  golden  air,  in  the  scents 
of  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowering  grass.  First- 
rate  swimmer  as  you  are,  you  would  not 
have  enjoyed  that  dip  half  as  much  if  it  were 
taken  in  a  covered  bath,  where  your  eyes  dwelt 
only  on  white  tiles  and  dressing-booths." 

The  girl,  subtly  aware  of  a  new  element  in 
life,  was  alarmed  by  its  piercing  sweetness,  and 
with  ruthless  logic  brought  their  talk  back  to  a 
commonplace  level. 

"Roxton  seems  to  be  a  rather  quaint  place  to 
find  you  in,  Mr.  Trenholme,"  she  said.  "How 
did  you  happen  on  our  tiny  village?  Though 
so  far  from  London,  we  are  quite  a  byway. 
Why  did  you  pay  us  a  visit?" 

So  Trenholme  dropped  to  earth  again,  and 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  215 

they  spoke  of  matters  of  slight  import  till  the 
boundary  wall  was  reached. 

Sylvia  hailed  a  man  attending  cattle  in  the 
farmyard,  and  the  artist  vaulted  the  wall,  which 
was  breast  high.  The  girl  wondered  if  she  could 
do  that.  "When  opportunity  served  she  would 
try.  Eesting  her  elbows  on  the  coping-stones, 
she  watched  Trenholme  as  he  hurried  away 
among  the  buildings  and  made  for  the  village. 
She  had  never  before  met  such  a  man  or  any 
one  even  remotely  like  him.  He  differed  essen- 
tially from  the  Fenleys,  greatly  as  the  brothers 
themselves  differed.  Without  conscious  effort 
to  please,  he  had  qualities  that  appealed 
strongly  to  women,  and  Sylvia  knew  now  that 
no  consideration  would  induce  her  to  marry 
either  of  her  "cousins." 

If  asked  to  put  her  thought  into  words,  she 
would  have  boggled  at  the  task,  for  intuition 
is  not  to  be  defined  in  set  speech.  In  her  own 
way,  she  had  summed  up  the  characteristics  of 
the  two  men  with  one  of  whom  marriage  had 
been  at  least  a  possibility.  Hilton  she  feared  and 
Robert  she  despised,  so  if  either  was  to  become 
her  husband,  it  would  be  Hilton.  But  five  min- 
utes of  John  Trenholme 's  companionship  had 
given  her  a  standard  by  which  to  measure  her 
suitors,  and  both  fell  wofully  short  of  its  de- 
mands. She  saw  with  startling  clearness  of 
vision  that  Hilton,  the  schemer,  and  Robert,  the 
wastrel,  led  selfish  lives.  Souls  they  must  pos- 


216  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

sess,  but  souls  starved  by  lack  of  spirituality, 
souls  pent  in  dun  prisons  of  their  own  contriv- 
ing. 

She  was  so  lost  in  thought,  thought  that 
strayed  from  crystal-bright  imageries  to  nebu- 
lous shapes  at  once  dark  and  terrifying,  that  the 
first  intimation  she  received  of  Robert  Fenley's 
approach  was  his  stertorous  breathing.  From 
a  rapid  walk  he  had  broken  into  a  jog  trot  when 
he  saw  Trenholme  vanish  over  the  wall.  Of 
late  he  seldom  walked  or  rode  a  horse,  and  he 
was  slightly  out  of  condition,  so  his  heavy  face 
was  flushed  and  perspiring,  and  his  utterance 
somewhat  labored  when  the  girl  turned  at  his 
cry: 

"I  say,  Sylvia — you've  given  me  such  a 
chase  1  Who  the  deuce  is  that  fellow,  an*  what 
are  you  doing  here  I ' ' 

Robert  had  appeared  at  an  inauspicious  mo- 
ment. Sylvia  eyed  him  with  a  new  disfavor. 
He  was  decidedly  gross,  both  in  manner  and 
language.  She  was  sure  he  could  not  have 
vaulted  the  wall. 

"I'm  not  aware  that  I  called  for  any  chasing 
on  your  part,"  she  said,  with  an  aloofness  peril- 
ously akin  to  disdain. 

He  halted,  panting,  and  eyed  her  sulkily. 

"No,  but  dash  it  all!  You  can't  go  walking 
around  with  any  rotten  outsider  who  forces  him- 
self into  your  company,"  was  the  most  amiable 
reply  he  could  frame  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  217 

' '  You  are  short  of  breath, ' '  she  said,  smiling 
in  a  curiously  impersonal  way.  "Run  back  to 
the  house.  It  will  do  you  good." 

"All  right.  You  run  with  me.  The  first  gong 
will  go  any  minute,  and  we've  got  to  eat,  you 
know,  even  though  the  pater  is  dead." 

It  was  an  unhappy  allusion.    Sylvia  stiffened. 

"My  poor  uncle's  death  did  not  seem  to  trou- 
ble you  greatly  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"Kindly  leave  me  now.  I'll  follow  soon.  I  am 
waiting  for  Mr.  Trenholme,  who  wants  to  show 
me  some  sketches." 

"A  nice  time  to  look  at  sketches,  upon  my 
word!  And  who's  Trenholme,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

Sylvia  bethought  herself.  Certainly  an  ex- 
planation was  needful,  and  her  feminine  wit 
supplied  one  instantly. 

"Mr.  Trenholme  was  sent  here  by  the  Scot- 
land Yard  people,"  she  said,  a  trifle  less 
frigidly.  "I  suppose  we  shall  all  be  mixed  up 
in  the  inquiry  the  detectives  are  holding,  and 
it  seems  that  Mr.  Trenholme  was  at  work  in  the 
park  this  morning  when  that  awful  affair  took 
place.  Unknown  to  me,  I  was  near  the  spot 
where  he  was  sketching  before  breakfast,  and 
one  of  the  detectives,  the  little  one,  says  it  is 
important  that — that  the  fact  should  be  proved. 
Mr.  Trenholme  called  to  tell  me  just  what  hap- 
pened. So  you  see  there  is  nothing  in  his  action 
that  should  annoy  any  one — you  least  of  any, 


218  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

since  you  were  away  from  home  at  the 
time." 

"But  why  has  he  mizzled  over  the  wall?" 

"He  is  staying  at  the  White  Horse  Inn,  and 
has  gone  to  fetch  the  drawings." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  understand.  If  that's  it,  I'll 
wait  till  he  turns  up.  You'll  soon  get  rid  of 
him." 

Sylvia  had  no  valid  reason  to  urge  against 
this  decision,  but  she  did  not  desire  Robert's 
company,  and  chose  a  feminine  method  of  re- 
senting it. 

"I  don't  think  Mr.  Trenholme  will  be  anxious 
to  meet  you,"  she  said  coolly. 

"Why  not?" 

"You  are  such  a  transparent  person  in  your 
likes  and  dislikes.  You  have  never  even  seen 
him,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  yet  you 
speak  of  him  in  a  way  so  unwarranted,  so 
ridiculously  untrue,  that  your  manner  might  an- 
noy him. ' ' 

"My  manner,  indeed!  Is  he  so  precious 
then?  By  gad,  it'll  be  interesting  to  look  this 
rare  bird  over." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him  and  leaned  on  the 
wall  again.  Her  slight,  lissome  figure  acquired 
a  new  elegance  from  her  black  dress.  Robert 
had  never  set  eyes  on  Sylvia  in  such  a  cos- 
tume before  that  day.  Hitherto  she  had  been  a 
schoolgirl,  a  flapper,  a  straight-limbed,  boyish 
young  person  in  long  frocks;  but  today  she 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  219 

seemed  to  have  put  on  a  new  air  of  womanli- 
ness, and  he  found  it  strangely  attractive. 

"There's  no  sense  in  our  quarreling  about 
the  chap  anyhow/'  he  said  with  a  gruff  attempt 
to  smooth  away  difficulties.  "Of  course,  I 
sh'an't  let  on  I  followed  you.  Just  spotted  you 
in  the  distance  and  joined  you  by  chance,  don't 
you  know." 

Sylvia  did  not  answer.  She  was  comparing 
Kobert  Fenley's  conversational  style  with  John 
Trenholme's,  and  the  comparison  was  unflat- 
tering to  Kobert. 

So  he,  too,  came  and  leaned  on  the  wall. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  annoyed  you  just  now,  Syl," 
he  said.  "That  dashed  little  detective  is  to 
blame.  He  does  put  things  in  such  a  beastly 
unpleasant  way." 

"What  things?" 

"Why,  about  you  and  me  and  all  of  us.  Gave 
me  a  regular  lecture  because  I  went  back  to  town 
this  morning.  I  couldn't  help  it,  old  girl.  I 
really  couldn't.  I  had  to  settle  some  urgent 
business,  but  that's  all  ended  now.  The  pater's 
death  has  steadied  me.  No  more  gallivanting 
off  to  London  for  me.  Settle  down  in  Eoxton, 
Board  of  Guardians  on  Saturdays,  church  on 
Sunday,  tea  and  tennis  at  the  vicarage,  and 
'you-come-to-our-place-tomorrow.'  You  know 
the  sort  of  thing — old-fashioned,  respectable 
and  comfy.  I'll  sell  my  motor  bike  and  start  a 
car.  Motor  bikes  make  a  fellow  a  bit  of  a  vaga- 


220  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

bond — eh,  what?  They  will  go  the  pace.  You 
can't  stop  'em.  Fifty  per,  and  be  hanged  to 
the  police,  that's  their  motto." 

"It  sounds  idyllic,"  the  girl  forced  herself  to 
say  lightly,  but  her  teeth  met  with  a  snap,  and 
her  fingers  gripped  the  rough  surface  of  the 
stones,  for  she  remembered  how  Trenholme  had 
said  of  her  that  she  ' '  reveled  in  the  sunlight,  in 
the  golden  air,  in  the  scents  of  trees  and  shrubs 
and  flowering  grasses." 

There  was  a  musical  cadence  in  her  voice  that 
restored  Robert's  surly  good  humor;  he  was 
of  that  peculiar  type  of  spoiled  youth  whose 
laugh  is  a  guffaw  and  whose  mirth  ever  holds 
a  snarl. 

"Here  comes  your  paint  slinger,"  he  said. 
"Wonder  if  he  really  can  stage  a  decent  picture. 
If  so,  when  the  present  fuss  is  ended  we'll  get 
him  to  do  a  group.  You  and  me  and  the  keep- 
ers and  dogs  in  front  of  the  "Warren  Covert, 
next  October,  after  a  big  drive.  How  would 
that  be?" 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Trenholme  will  feel  flattered." 

When  Trenholme  approached  he  was  not  too 
well  pleased  to  find  Miss  Manning  in  charge  of 
a  new  cavalier. 

From  items  gathered  earlier  in  the  village 
he  guessed  the  newcomer's  identity.  Perhaps 
he  expected  that  the  girl  would  offer  an  intro- 
duction, but  she  only  smiled  pleasantly  and 
said: 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  221 

* '  You  must  have  hurried.  I  do  hope  I  haven 't 
put  you  to  any  inconvenience  1 ' ' 

"Eliza  informed  me  that  she  had  just  popped 
my  chicken  in  the  oven,  so  there  is  plenty  of 
time,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  it  makes  one  hot  to 
be  constantly  popping  things  into  ovens.  In  the 
course  of  years  one  should  become  a  sort  of 
salamander.  Have  you  ever  read  the  autobiog- 
raphy of  that  great  artist  and  very  complete 
rascal,  Benvenuto  Cellini?  He  is  the  last  per- 
son reputed  to  have  seen  a  real  salamander  in 
the  fire,  and  he  only  remembered  the  fact  be- 
cause his  father  beat  him  lest  he  should  for- 
get it." 

"Ben  who?"  broke  in  Robert  cheerfully. 

"Benvenuto  Cellini." 

"Never  heard  of  him.  .  .  .  Well,  let's  have 
a  peep-o.  Miss  Manning  and  I  dine  at  a  quar- 
ter to  eight.  You've  been  taking  some  snap- 
shots in  the  park,  I'm  told.  If  they've  got 
any  ginger  in  them " 

"Probably  you  will  describe  them  as  hot 
stuff,"  said  Trenholme,  laying  a  portfolio  on 
the  wall  in  front  of  Sylvia  and  opening  it. 

"This  is  a  pencil  drawing  of  the  great  gates," 
he  went  on,  ignoring  Fenley.  "Of  course, 
they're  Wren's,  and  therefore  beautiful.  Eox- 
ton  Park  holds  a  real  treasure  in  those  gates, 
Miss  Manning.  Here  is  a  water-color  sketch  of 
the  house  and  grounds.  Do  you  like  it?" 

1  ( Oh,  it  is  exquisite !    Why,  you  have  caught 


222  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

the  very  glint  of  sunshine  on  the  walls  and 
roofs,  and  it  is  shimmering  in  the  leaves  of  that 
copper  beech.  Ah  me !  It  looks  so  easy." 

Kobert  peered  over  her  shoulder.  Sylvia's 
gasp  of  admiration  annoyed  him ;  but  he  looked 
and  said  nothing. 

"This,"  continued  Trenholme,  "is  an  unfin- 
ished study  of  the  lake.  I  was  so  busily  occu- 
pied that  I  was  not  aware  of  your  presence  until 
you  were  quite  near  at  hand.  Then  when  you 
dived  into  the  water  I  grabbed  a  canvas  and 
some  tubes  of  paint.  Here  is  the  result — com- 
pleted, to  a  large  extent,  in  my  room  at  the 
inn." 

He  took  a  picture  out  of  a  compartment  of 
the  portfolio  specially  constructed  to  protect 
an  undried  surface,  and  placed  it  at  an  angle 
that  suited  the  light.  His  tone  was  uncon- 
cerned, for  he  had  steeled  himself  against  this 
crucial  moment.  Would  she  be  angered? 
"Would  those  limpid  blue  eyes,  violet  now  in 
shadow,  be  raised  to  his  in  protest  and  vexed 
dismay?  During  the  brief  walk  to  and  from  the 
inn  he  had  recollected  the  girl's  age,  her  sur- 
roundings, the  cramping  influences  of  existence 
in  a  society  of  middle-class  City  folk.  He  felt 
like  a  prisoner  awaiting  a  verdict  when  the 
issue  was  doubtful,  and  a  wave  of  impulse  might 
sway  the  jury  one  way  or  the  other. 

But  he  held  his  head  high,  and  his  face  flushed 
slightly,  for  there  could  be  no  gainsaying  the 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  223 

message  glowing  from  that  cunning  brush  work. 
There  were  two  goddesses,  one  in  marble  and 
one  palpitating  with  life.  The  likeness,  too,  was 
undeniable.  If  one  was  a  replica  of  Greek  art  at 
its  zenith,  the  other  was  unmistakably  Sylvia 
Manning. 

The  girl  gazed  long  and  earnestly.  Her  pale 
cheeks  had  reddened  for  an  instant,  but  the 
flood  of  surprise  and  emotion  ebbed  as  quickly 
as  it  flowed,  and  left  her  wan,  with  parted 
lips. 

At  last  she  looked  at  Trenholme  and  spoke. 

" Thank  you!"  she  said,  and  their  eyes  met. 

The  artist  understood;  and  he  in  turn, 
blanched  somewhat.  Rather  hastily  he  replaced 
the  picture  in  its  receptacle. 

Robert  Fenley  coughed  and  grinned,  and  the 
spell  was  broken. 

"You  said  I'd  call  it  hot  stuff,"  he  said. 
""Well,  you  sized  my  opinion  up  to  a  T.  Of 
course,  it's  jolly  clever — any  fellow  can  see 
that—" 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Trenholme,"  said  Sylvia, 
and  she  made  off  at  a  rapid  pace.  Robert 
grinned  again. 

"No  young  lady  would  stand  that  sort  of 
thing,"  he  chuckled.  "You  didn't  really  think 
she  would — eh,  what?  But  look  here,  I'll  buy 
it.  Send  me  a  line  later." 

He  hurried  after  Sylvia,  running  to  over- 
take her.  Trenholme  stood  there  a  long  time; 


224  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

in  fact,  until  the  two  were  hidden  by  the  distant 
line  of  trees.  Then  he  smiled. 

"So  you  are  Eobert  Fenley,"  he  communed, 
packing  the  portfolio  leisurely.  "Well,  if  Syl- 
via Manning  marries  you,  I'll  be  a  bachelor  all 
my  days,  for  I'll  never  dare  imagine  I  know 
anything  about  a  woman's  soul;  though  I'm 
prepared  at  this  hour  of  grace  to  stake  my 
career  that  that  girl's  soul  is  worthy  of  her  very 
perfect  body." 

Puffing  a  good  deal,  Fenley  contrived  to  over- 
haul his  "cousin." 

"By  jing,  Sylvia,  you  can  step  out  a  bit,"  he 
said.  "And  you  change  your  mind  mighty 
quick.  Five  minutes  ago  you  were  ready  to  wait 
any  length  of  time  till  that  Johnny  turned  up, 
and  now  you're  doing  more  than  five  per. 
What's  the  rush?  It's  only  half  past  seven,  and 
we  don't  dress  tonight." 

"I'm  not  dining  downstairs,"  she  answered. 

"Oh,  I  say,  I  can't  stand  Hilton  all  alone." 

"Nor  can  I  stand  either  of  you,"  she  was 
tempted  to  retort,  but  contented  herself  by  say- 
ing that  she  had  arranged  for  a  meal  to  be 
served  in  her  aunt's  room.  Grumble  and 
growl  as  he  might,  Eobert  could  not  shake  her 
resolve;  he  was  in  a  vile  temper  when  he 
reached  the  dining-room. 

His  brother  had  not  arrived,  so  he  braced 
himself  for  an  ordeal  by  drinking  a  stiff  whisky 
and  soda.  When  Hilton  came  in  the  pair  nodded 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  225 

to  each  other  but  ate  in  silence.  At  last  Rob- 
ert glanced  up  at  Tomlinson. 

"Just  shove  the  stuff  on  the  table  and  clear 
out,  "he  said.  "We'll  help  ourselves.  Mr.  Hil- 
ton and  I  want  to  have  a  quiet  talk. ' ' 

Hilton  gave  him  a  quick  underlook  but  did 
not  interfere.  Perhaps  purposely,  when  the 
servants  had  left  the  room  he  opened  the  battle 
with  a  sneer. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  make  a  fool  of  yourself 
this  evening,"  he  said. 

"As  how!"  queried  Robert,  wondrously  sub- 
dued to  all  appearance,  though  aching  to  give 
the  other  what  he  called  "a  bit  of  his 
mind." 

"I  understand  you  made  after  Sylvia  and 
the  artist,  meaning  to  chastise  somebody." 

"You  were  wrong,"  said  Robert  slowly. 
"You  nearly  always  are.  I  make  mistakes  my- 
self, but  I  own  up  handsomely.  You  don't. 
That's  where  we  differ,  see!" 

"I  see  differences,"  and  Hilton  helped  him- 
self to  a  glass  of  claret. 

"Trenholme,  the  artist  Johnny,  is  a  clever 
chap — slightly  cracked,  as  they  all  are,  but 
dashed  clever.  By  gad,  you  ought  to  see  the 
picture  he's  painted  of  Sylvia.  Anyhow,  yon 
will  see  it.  I've  bought  it." 

"Really!" 

"I  said  I'd  buy  it — same  thing.  He'll  jump 
at  the  offer.  It'll  hang  in  my  dressing-room. 


226  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

I  don't  suppose  Sylvia  will  kick  about  a  trifle 
like  that  when  we're  married." 

Hilton  was  holding  the  glass  of  wine  to  his 
lips.  His  hand  shook,  and  he  spilled  a  little, 
but  he  drank  the  remainder. 

"When  did  you  decide  to  many  Sylvia?"  he 
inquired,  after  a  pause  which  might  have  been 
needed  to  gain  control  of  his  voice. 

"It's  been  decided  for  a  long  time,"  said  Rob- 
ert doggedly,  himself  showing  some  signs  of 
enforced  restraint.  "It  was  the  pater's  wish, 
as  you  know.  I'm  sorry  now  I  didn't  fix  mat- 
ters before  he  died;  but  'better  late  than  never.' 
I  asked  Sylvia  today,  and  we've  arranged  to  get 
married  quite  soon. ' ' 

"Are  you  by  any  chance  telling  the  truth?" 
"What  the  blazes  do  you  mean?"  and  Rob- 
ert's fist  pounded  the  table  heavily. 

"Exactly  what  I  say.    You  say  that  you  and 
Sylvia   have   arranged   to    get   married   quite 
soon.    Those  were  your  words.    Is  that  true!" 
"Confound  you,  of  course  it  is." 
"Sylvia  has  actually  agreed  to  that?" 
*  *  I  asked  her.    What  more  do  you  want  ? ' ' 
"I  am  merely  inquiring   civilly  what   she 
said." 

"Dash  it,  you  know  what  girls  are  like.  You 
ought  to.  Isn't  Eileen  Garth  a  bit  coy  at 
times?" 

"One  might  remark  that  Mrs.  Lisle  also  was 
coy." 


SOME  PRELIMINARY  SKIRMISHING  227 

"Look  here "  began  the  other  furiously, 

but  the  other  checked  him. 

"Let  us  stop  bickering  like  a  couple  of 
counter  jumpers/'  he  said,  and  a  shrewder  man 
than  Robert  might  have  been  warned  by  the 
slow,  incisive  utterance.  "You  make  an  aston- 
ishing announcement  on  an  occasion  when  it 
might  least  be  expected,  yet  resent  any  doubt 
being  thrown  on  its  accuracy.  Did  or  did  not 
Sylvia  accept  you?" 

"Well,  she  said  something  about  not  wishing 
to  talk  of  marriage  so  soon  after  the  old  man's 
death,  but  that  was  just  her  way  of  putting  it. 
I  mean  to  marry  her;  and  when  a  fellow  has 
made  up  his  mind  on  a  thing  like  that  it's  best 
to  say  so  and  have  done  with  it.  Sylvia's  a  jolly 
nice  girl,  and  has  plenty  of  tin.  I'm  first  in  the 
field,  so  I'm  warning  off  any  other  candidates. 
See?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Hilton,  pouring  out  an- 
other glass  of  wine.  This  time  his  hand  was 
quite  steady,  and  he  drank  without  mishap. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  wish  me  luck? ' '  said  Rob- 
ert, eying  him  viciously. 

"I  agree  with  Sylvia.  The  day  we  have  lost 
our  father  is  hardly  a  fitting  time  for  such  a 
discussion;  or  shall  I  say  ceremony?" 

"You  can  say  what  the  devil  you  like.  And 
you  can  do  what  you  like.  Only  keep  off  my 
corns  and  I  won't  tread  on  yours." 

Having,  as  he  fancied,  struck  a  decisive  blow 


228  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

in  the  struggle  for  that  rare  prize,  Sylvia,  Rob- 
ert Fenley  pushed  back  his  chair,  arose,  waited 
a  second  for  an  answer  which  came  not,  and 
strode  out,  muttering  something  about  being 
"fed  up." 

Hilton's  face  was  lowered,  and  one  nervous 
hand  shaded  his  brows.  Eobert  thought  he  had 
scored,  but  he  could  not  see  the  inhuman  rage 
blazing  in  those  hidden  eyes.  The  discovery, 
had  he  made  it,  might  not  have  distressed  him, 
but  he  would  surely  have  been  puzzled  by  the 
strange  smile  which  wrinkled  Hilton's  sallow 
cheeks  when  the  door  closed  and  the  Eurasian 
was  left  alone  in  the  dining-room. 


CHAPTEE  XII 
WHEREIN  SCOTLAND  YARD  is  DINED  AND  WINED 

THREE  dinners  for  two  were  in  progress  in 
The  Towers  at  one  and  the  same  hour. 
One  feast  had  been  shortened  by  the  ill- 
concealed  hatred  of  each  brother  for  the  other. 
At  the  second,  brooding  care  found  unwonted 
lodging  in  the  charming  personality  of  Sylvia 
Manning — care,  almost  foreboding,  heightened 
by  the  demented  mutterings  of  her  *  *  aunt. ' '  At 
the  third,  with  the  detectives,  sat  responsibility ; 
but  light-heartedly  withal,  since  these  seasoned 
man-hunters  could  cast  off  their  day's  work  like 
a  garment. 

The  first  and  second  meals  were  of  the  high 
quality  associated  with  English  country  houses 
of  a  superior  class ;  the  third  was  a  spread  for 
epicures.  Tomlinson  saw  to  that.  He  was 
catering  for  a  gourmet  in  Furneaux,  and  rose 
to  the  requisite  height. 

The  little  man  sighed  as  he  tasted  the  soup. 

"What  is  it  now?"  inquired  Winter,  whose 
glance  was  dwelling  appreciatively  on  a  dusty 
bottle  labeled  "Clos  Vosgeot,  1879." 

"I  hate  eating  the  food  of  a  man  whom  I 


230  MORTIMER  FENLET 

mean  to  produce  as  a  star  turn  at  the  Old 
Bailey/'  was  the  despondent  answer. 

"So  do  I,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Winter 
briskly.  "But  this  appetizing  menu  comes  out 
of  another  larder.  I  shall  be  vastly  mistaken  if 
we  're  not  actually  the  guests  of  a  certain  pretty 
young  lady.  Finance  of  the  Fenley  order  is  not 
in  good  odor  in  the  City. 

"Have  no  scruples,  my  boy.  We  may  be  vul- 
tures at  the  feast ;  but  before  we  see  the  end  of 
the  Fenley  case  there'll  be  a  smash  in  Bishops- 
gate  Street,  and  Miss  Sylvia  Manning  will  be 
lucky  if  some  sharp  lawyer  is  able  to  grab  some 
part  of  the  wreckage  for  her  benefit." 

"Clear  logic,  at  any  rate."  And  Furneaux 
brightened  visibly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it's  based  on.  Our  swarthy 
friend  was  examining  lists  of  securities  in  the 
train.  He  didn't  lift  his  head  quickly  enough — 
took  me  for  a  ticket  puncher,  I  expect — so  I  had 
time  to  twig  what  he  was  doing.  I'd  like  to  run 
my  eye  over  the  papers  in  that  leather  port- 
folio." 

"You  may  manage  it.  You're  the  luckiest 
fellow  breathing.  Such  opportunities  come 
your  way.  I  have  to  make  them. ' ' 

After  an  interlude  played  by  sole  Colbert, 
Winter  shot  an  amused  question  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"What's  at  the  back  of  your  head  with  re- 
gard to  the  artist  and  Miss  Sylvia?"  he  said. 


DINED  AND  WINED  231 

"It's  high  time  she  spoke  to  a  real  man. 
These  Fenleys  are  animals,  all  of  'em.  John 
Trenholme  is  a  genius,  and  a  good-looking 
one." 

"I  met  the  girl  in  a  corridor  a  while  ago, 
and  she  was  rather  disconsolate,  I  thought." 

"And  with  good  reason.  You've  noticed  how 
each  brother  eyes  her.  They'll  fight  like  jackals 
before  this  night  is  out.  I  hope  Sylvia  will  in- 
dulge in  what  women  call  a  good  cry.  That  will 
be  Trenholme 's  golden  hour.  Some  Frenchman 
— of  course  he  was  clever,  being  French — 
says  that  a  man  should  beware  when  a 
woman  smiles  but  he  may  dare  all  when  she 
weeps." 

"Are  we  marriage  brokers,  then?" 

"We  must  set  the  Fenleys  at  each  other's 
throats." 

"Yes,"  mused  Winter  aloud,  when  a  ris  de 
vecw  bowne  maman  had  passed  like  a  dream, 
"this  affair  is  becoming  decidedly  interesting. 
But  every  why  hath  a  wherefore,  according  to 
Shakespeare.  Tell  me" — and  his  voice  sank  to 
a  whisper —  "tell  me  why  you  believe  Hilton 
Fenley  killed  his  father." 

"You  nosed  your  way  into  that  problem  this 
afternoon.  Between  his  mother  and  that  girl, 
Eileen  Garth,  he  was  in  a  tight  place.  He  stole 
those  bonds.  I  fancied  it  at  the  time,  but  I  know 
it  now.  They  were  negotiated  in  Paris  by  a 
woman  who  occupied  a  room  in  the  Hotel 


232  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

d'ltalie,  Rue  Caumartin,  Paris,  and  one  of  her 
registered  boxes  bore  the  rail  number,  517. ' ' 

1 '  You  little  devil ! ' '  blazed  out  Winter.  « ' And 
you  never  said  a  word  when  I  told  you!" 

"  Astonishment  has  rendered  you  incoherent. 
You  mean,  of  course,  when  you  told  me  you  had 
seen  in  Gloucester  Mansions  a  box  labeled  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  facts  I  have  just  retailed. 
But  I  yield  that  minor  point.  It  is  a  purist's, 
at  the  best.  I  have  supplied  a  motive,  one  mo- 
tive, for  the  crime ;  the  plotter  feared  discovery. 
But  there  are  dozens  of  others.  He  was  impa- 
tient of  the  old  man's  rigid  control.  Hilton  is 
sharp  and  shrewd,  and  he  guessed  things  were 
going  wrong  financially.  He  knew  that  his 
father's  methods  were  out  of  date,  and  believed 
he  could  straighten  the  tangle  if  the  reins  of 
power  were  not  withheld  too  long. 

"He  saw  that  Sylvia  Manning's  gold  was  in 
the  melting-pot,  and  appreciated  precisely  the 
cause  of  the  elder  Fenley's  anxiety  that  she 
should  marry  Robert.  Once  in  the  family,  you 
know,  her  fortunes  were  bound  up  with  theirs ; 
while  any  'cute  lawyer  could  dish  her  in  the 
marriage  settlements  if  sufficiently  well  paid  for 
a  nasty  job.  When  Sylvia  was  Mrs.  Robert  Fen- 
ley,  and  perhaps  mother  of  a  squalling  Fenley, 
the  head  of  the  business  could  face  the  future  if 
not  with  confidence,  at  least  with  safety.  But 
where  would  Hilton  be  then?  The  girl  lost,  the 
money  in  jeopardy,  and  he  himself  steadily  el- 


DINED  AND  WINED  233 

bowed  out.  'Ore  nom! .  I've  known  men  mur- 
dered for  less  convincing  reasons." 

"Men,  yes;  not  fathers." 

"Some  sons  are  the  offspring  of  Beelzebub. 
Consider  the  parentage  in  this  instance.  Fen- 
ley,  a  groom  and  horse  coper  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  dark  daughter  of  a  Calcutta  merchant 
on  the  other.  If  the  progeny  of  such  a  union 
escaped  a  hereditary  taint  it  would  be  a  miracle. 
Cremate  Hilton  Fenley  and  his  very  dust  will 
contain  evil  germs." 

"You're  strong  in  theory  but  weak  in  proof." 

That  style  of  argument  invariably  nettled 
Furneaux. 

"You  must  butt  into  a  few  more  mysterious 
suites  of  apartments  in  London  and  elsewhere, 
and  you'll  supply  proof  in  bucketfuls,"  he 
snapped. 

"But  was  there  an  accomplice?  Squirm  as 
you  like,  you  can't  get  over  the  fact  that  Hilton 
was  in  his  room  when  the  bullet  that  killed  his 
father  came  from  the  wood." 

"He  is  not  the  sort  of  person  likely  to  trust 
his  liberty,  his  life  even,  to  the  keeping  of  any 
other  human  being.  I  start  from  the  hypothesis 
that  he  alone  planned  and  carried  out  the  crime, 
so  I  do  not  lift  my  hand  and  cry  'Impossible,' 
but  I  ask  myself,  'How  was  it  done?'  Well, 
there  are  several  methods  worthy  of  considera- 
tion— clockwork,  electricity,  even  a  time  fuse  at- 
tached to  the  proper  mechanism.  I  haven't 


234  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

really  bothered  myself  yet  to  determine  the 
means,  because  when  that  knowledge  becomes 
indispensable  we  must  have  our  man  under  lock 
and  key." 

"Of  course,  the  rifle  is  securely  fixed  in 
that " 

The  door  opened.  Tomlinson  came  in,  smil- 
ing blandly. 

"I  hope  you  are  enjoying  your  dinner,  gen- 
tlemen both!"  he  said. 

"You  have  made  your  cook  an  artist,"  said 
Furneaux. 

"I  suppose  you  are  happier  here  than  in  a 
big  London  restaurant,"  said  Winter. 

The  butler  appreciated  such  subtle  compli- 
ments, and  beamed  on  them. 

"With  a  little  encouragement  and  advice,  our 
chef  can  prepare  a  very  eatable  dinner,"  he 
said.  "As  for  my  own  ambitions,  I  have  had 
them,  like  every  man  worth  his  salt;  but  I  fill 
a  comfortable  chair  here — no  worry,  no  grum- 
bling, not  a  soul  to  say  nem  or  con,  so  long  as 
things  go  smoothly." 

"It  must  have  been  nem  all  the  time, ' '  giggled 
Furneaux,  and  Winter  was  so  afflicted  by  a  de- 
sire to  sneeze  that  he  buried  his  face  in  a  napkin. 

"And  how  was  the  wine?"  went  on  Tomlin- 
son, with  an  eye  on  the  little  man.  Furneaux 's 
features  were  crinkled  in  a  Japanese  smile.  He 
wanted  to  kick  Winter,  who  was  quivering  with 
suppressed  laughter. 


DINED  AND  WINED  235 

"I  never  expected  to  find  such  vintages  in  a 
house  of  the  mauvais  riches,"  he  said.  " Per- 
haps you  don't  speak  French,  Mr.  Tomlinson, 
so  allow  me  to  explain  that  I  am  alluding  to  men 
of  wealth  not  born  in  the  purple. ' ' 

"Precisely — self-made.  Well  sir,  poor  Mr. 
Fenley  left  the  stocking  of  his  cellar  entirely 
to  me.  I  gave  the  matter  much  thought.  When 
my  knowledge  was  at  fault  I  consulted  experts, 
and  the  result " 

"That  is  the  result,"  cried  Furneaux,  seizing 
the  empty  claret  bottle,  and  planting  it  so  firmly 
on  the  table  that  the  cutlery  danced. 

A  shoulder  of  lamb,  served  a  la  Soubise,  ap- 
peared; and  Tomlinson,  announcing  that  his 
presence  in  the  dining-room  had  been  dispensed 
with,  thought  he  would  join  them  in  a  snack. 
Being  a  hospitable  creature,  he  opened  another 
bottle  of  the  Clos  Vosgeot,  but  his  guests  were 
not  to  be  tempted. 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "in  a  few  minutes  you 
must  try  our  port.  It  is  not  Alto  Douro,  Mr. 
Furneaux,  but  it  has  body  and  bowket." 

Winter  was  better  prepared  this  time.  More- 
over he  was  carving,  and  aware  of  a  master's 
criticism,  and  there  are  occult  problems  con- 
nected with  even  such  a  simple  joint  as  a  shoul- 
der of  lamb.  Furneaux,  too,  was  momentarily 
subdued.  He  seemed  to  be  reflecting  sadly  that 
statues  of  gold,  silver  and  bronze  may  have  feet 
of  clay. 


236  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"I  have  often  thought,  gentlemen,"  said  the 
butler,  "that  yours  must  be  a  most  interesting 
profession.  You  meet  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  and  women. ' ' 

"We  consort  with  the  noblest  malefactors," 
agreed  Furneaux. 

"Dear  me,  sir,  you  do  use  the  queerest  words. 
Now,  I  should  never  dream  of  describing  a 
criminal  as  noble." 

"Not  in  the  generally  accepted  sense,  per- 
haps. But  you,  I  take  it,  have  not  had  the  op- 
portunity of  attending  a  really  remarkable  trial, 
when,  say,  some  intellectual  giant  among  mur- 
derers is  fighting  for  his  life.  Believe  me,  no 
drama  of  the  stage  can  rival  that  tragedy. 

"The  chief  actor,  remote,  solitary,  fenced 
away  from  the  world  he  is  hoping  to  reenter, 
sits  there  in  state.  Every  eye  is  on  him,  yet 
he  faces  judge,  jury,  counsel,  witnesses  and  au- 
dience with  a  calm  dignity  worthy  of  an  em- 
peror. He  listens  imperturbably  to  facts  which 
may  hang  him,  to  lies  which  may  lend  color  to 
the  facts,  to  well-meaning  guesses  which  are 
wide  of  the  mark.  Truthful  and  false  evidence 
is  equally  prone  to  err  when  guilt  or  innocence 
must  be  determined  by  circumstances  alone. 

"But  the  prisoner  knows.  He  is  the  one  man 
able  to  discriminate  between  truth  and  falsity, 
yet  he  must  not  reveal  the  cruel  stab  of  fact 
or  the  harmless  buffet  of  fiction  by  so  much  as 
a  flicker  of  an  eyelid.  He  surveys  the  honest 


DINED  AND  WINED  237 

blunderer  and  the  perjured  ruffian — I  mean  the 
counsel  for  the  defense  and  the  prosecution  re- 
spectively— with  impartial  scrutiny.  If  he  is  a 
sublime  villain,  he  will  call  on  Heaven  to  testify 
that  he  is  innocent  with  a  solemnity  not  sur- 
passed by  the  judge  who  sentences  him  to  death. 
.  .  .  Yes,  please,  a  bit  off  the  knuckle  end." 

The  concluding  words  were  addressed  to 
"Winter,  and  Tomlinson  started,  for  he  was 
wrapped  up  in  the  scene  Furneaux  was  depict- 
ing. 

1  'That  point  of  view  had  not  occurred  to  me," 
he  admitted. 

''You'll  appreciate  it  fully  when  you  see  Mr. 
Fenley's  murderer  in  the  dock,"  said  Fur- 
neaux. 

"Ah,  sir.  That  brings  your  illustration  home, 
indeed.  But  shall  we  ever  know  who  killed 
him?" 

"Certainly.  Look  at  that  high  dome  of  in- 
telligence glistening  at  you  across  the  table. 
But  that  it  is  forbid  to  tell  the  secrets  of  the 
prison  house,  it  could  a  tale  unfold  whose  slight- 
est word  would  harrow  up  thy  soul " 

Harris,  the  footman,  entered,  carrying  a  de- 
canter. 

"Mr.  Hilton  Fenley's  compliments,  gentle- 
men, and  will  you  try  this  port?  He  says  Mr. 
Tomlinson  will  recommend  it,  because  Mr.  Fen- 
ley  himself  seldom  takes  wine.  Mr.  Fenley  will 
not  trouble  you  to  meet  him  again  this  evening. 


238  MORTIMER  FENLEX 

Mr.  Tomlinson,  Mr.  Fenley  wants  yon  for  a 
moment." 

The  butler  rose. 

"That  is  the  very  wine  I  spoke  of,"  he  said. 
"If  Mr.  Hilton  did  not  tonch  it,  Mr.  Kobert 
evidently  appreciated  it. ' ' 

He  glanced  at  Harris,  but  the  footman  did 
not  even  suspect  that  his  character  was  at  stake. 
The  decanter  was  nearly  full  when  placed  on 
the  sideboard ;  now  it  was  half  empty. 

Singularly  enough,  both  Winter  and  Fur- 
neaux  had  intercepted  that  questioning  glance, 
and  had  acquitted  Harris  simultaneously. 

"Are  the  gentlemen  still  in  the  dining- 
room?"  inquired  Winter. 

"Mr.  Hilton  is  there,  sir,  but  Mr.  Robert  went 
out  some  time  since." 

"Please  convey  our  thanks  to  Mr.  Hilton. 
I'm  sure  we  shall  enjoy  the  wine." 

When  Tomlinson  and  Harris  had  gone,  the 
eyes  of  the  two  detectives  met.  They  said  noth- 
ing at  first,  and  it  may  be  remembered  that  they 
were  reputedly  most  dangerous  to  a  pursued 
criminal  when  working  together  silently.  Win- 
ter took  the  decanter,  poured  out  a  small  quan- 
tity into  two  glasses,  and  gave  Furneaux  one. 
Then  they  smelled,  and  tasted,  and  examined 
the  wine  critically.  The  rich  red  liquid  might 
have  been  a  poisonous  decoction  for  the  care 
they  devoted  to  its  analysis. 

Furneaux  began. 


DINED  AND  WINED  239 

"I  have  so  many  sleepless  nights  that  I  rec- 
ognize bromide,  no  matter  how  it  is  disguised, " 
he  murmured. 

"Comparatively  harmless,  though  a  strong 
dose,"  said  Winter. 

"If  one  has  to  swallow  twenty  grains  or  so  of 
potassium  bromide  I  can  not  conceive  any  pleas- 
anter  way  of  taking  them  than  mixed  with  a 
sound  port." 

Winter  filled  one  of  the  glasses  four  times, 
pouring  each  amount  into  a  tumbler.  Furneaux 
looked  into  a  cupboard,  and  found  an  empty 
beer  bottle,  which  he  rinsed  with  water.  Mean- 
while Winter  was  fashioning  a  funnel  out  of  a 
torn  envelope,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  tum- 
blerful of  wine  was  in  the  bottle,  and  the  bottle 
in  Winter's  pocket.  This  done,  the  big  man 
lit  a  cigar  and  the  little  one  sniffed  the  smoke, 
which  was  his  peculiar  way  of  enjoying  the 
weed. 

"It  was  most  thoughtful  of  Mr.  Hilton  Fenley 
to  try  and  secure  us  a  long  night's  uninter- 
rupted sleep,"  said  Winter  between  puffs. 

"But  what  a  vitiated  taste  in  wine  he  must 
attribute  to  Scotland  Yard, ' '  said  Furneaux  bit- 
terly. 

' '  Still,  we  should  be  grateful  to  him  for  sup- 
plying a  gill  of  real  evidence. ' ' 

"I  may  forgive  him  later.  At  present,  I  want 
to  dilate  his  eyes  with  atropine,  so  that  he  may 
see  weird  shapes  and  be  tortured  of  ghouls." 


240  MORTIMER  FENLEK 

"Poor  devil!  He  won't  need  atropine  for 
that." 

"Don't  believe  it,  James.  In  some  respects 
he's  cold-blooded  as  a  fish.  Besides,  he  carries 
bromide  tablets  for  his  own  use.  He  simply 
couldn't  have  arranged  beforehand  to  dope 
us." 

"He's  getting  scared." 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed — in  the  Fenley 
sense,  that  is.  His  plot  against  Robert  has  mis- 
carried in  one  essential.  The  rifle  has  not  been 
found  in  the  wood.  Now,  I'm  in  chastened 
mood,  because  the  hour  for  action  approaches ; 
so  I'll  own  up.  I've  been  keeping  something 
up  my  sleeve,  just  for  the  joy  of  watching  you 
floundering  'midst  deep  waters.  Of  course,  you 
chose  the  right  channel.  I  knew  you  would,  but 
it's  a  treat  to  see  your  elephantine  struggles. 
For  all  that,  it's  a  sheer  impossibility  that  you 
should  guess  who  put  a  sprag  in  the  wheel  of 
Hilton's  chariot.  Give  you  three  tries,  for  a 
new  hat. ' ' 

"You're  desperately  keen  today  on  touching 
me  for  a  new  hat." 

"Well,  this  time  you  have  an  outside  chance. 
The  others  were  certs — for  me. ' ' 

Winter  smoked  in  silence  for  a  space. 

"I'll  take  you,"  he  said.     "The  artist?" 

"No."    The  Jerseyman  shook  his  head. 

"Police  Constable  Farrow?"  ventured  Win- 
ter again. 


DINED  AND  WINED  241 

Furneaux's  dismay  was  so  comical  that  his 
colleague  shook  with  mirth. 

"I  wanted  a  new  silk  topper,"  wheezed  Win- 
ter. 

"Silk  topper  be  hanged.  I  meant  a  straw, 
and  that's  what  you'll  get.  But  how  the  deuce 
did  you  manage  to  hit  upon  Farrow?" 

"He  closed  the  Quarry  Wood  at  the  psycho- 
logical moment." 

"You're  sucking  my  brains,  that's  what 
you  're  doing, ' '  grumbled  Furneaux.  * '  Anyhow, 
you're  right.  Hilton  had  the  scheme  perfected 
to  the  last  detail,  but  he  didn't  count  on  Far- 
row. After  a  proper  display  of  agitation — not 
all  assumed,  either,  because  he  was  more  shaken 
than  he  expected  to  be — he  'phoned  the  Yard 
and  the  doctor.  We  couldn't  arrive  for  nearly 
an  hour,  and  the  doctor  starts  on  his  rounds  at 
nine  o  'clock  sharp.  What  so  easy,  therefore,  as 
to  wander  out  in  a  welter  of  grief  and  anger, 
and  search  the  wood  for  the  murderer  on  his 
own  account?  One  solitary  minute  would  en- 
able him  to  put  the  rifle  in  a  hiding-place  where 
it  would  surely  be  discovered. 

"But  Farrow  stopped  him.  I  wormed  the 
whole  thing  out  of  our  sentry  this  afternoon. 
Fenley  tried  hard  to  send  Farrow  and  Bates 
off  on  a  wild-goose  chase,  but  Farrow,  quite 
mistakenly,  saw  the  chance  of  his  life  and  clung 
on  to  it.  Had  Farrow  budged  we  could  never 
have  hanged  Hilton.  Don't  you  see  how  the 


242  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

scheme  works?  He  had  some  reason  for  be- 
lieving that  Robert  will  refuse  to  give  a  full 
account  of  his  whereabouts  this  morning. 
Therefore,  he  must  contrive  that  the  rifle  shall 
be  found.  Put  the  two  damning  facts  together, 
and  Eobert  is  tied  in  a  knot.  Of  course,  he 
would  be  forced  to  prove  an  alibi,  but  by  that 
time  all  England  would  be  yelping,  'Thou  art 
the  man.'  In  any  event,  Hilton's  trail  would 
be  hopelessly  lost." 

"The  true  bowket  of  our  port  and  bromide 
begins  to  tickle  my  nostrils." 

A  good-looking  maid  brought  coffee,  and  Fur- 
neaux  grinned  at  her. 

"How  do  you  think  he'd  look  in  a  nice  straw 
hat!"  he  asked,  jerking  his  head  toward  Winter. 
The  girl  smiled.  The  little  man's  reputation 
had  reached  the  kitchen.  She  glanced  demurely 
at  the  Superintendent's  bullet  head. 

"Not  an  ordinary  straw.  You  mean  a  Pan- 
ama," she  said. 

"Certainly,"  laughed  Winter. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  howled  Furneaux. 
"Just  run  your  eye  over  him.  He  isn't  an 
isthmus — he's  a  continent." 

"A  common  straw  wouldn't  suit  him,"  per- 
sisted the  girl.  "He's  too  big  a  gentleman." 

"How  little  you  know  him!"  said  Furneaux. 

The  girl  blushed  and  giggled. 

"Go  on!"  she  said,  and  bounced  out. 

"This  inquiry  will  cost  you  a  bit,  my  boy, 


DINED  AND  WINED  243 

if  you  're  not  careful, ' '  sniggered  Winter.  * '  1 11 
compound  on  a  straw;  but  take  my  advice,  and 
curb  your  sporting  propensities.  Now,  if  this 
coffee  isn't  doctored,  let's  drink  it,  and  inter- 
view Robert  before  the  bromide  begins  to  act." 

Robert  Fenley  received  them  in  his  own  room. 
He  strove  to  appear  at  ease  and  business-like, 
but,  as  Furneaux  had  surmised,  was  emphatic 
in  his  refusal  to  give  any  clear  statement  as 
to  his  proceedings  in  London.  He  admitted  the 
visit  to  Hendon  Road,  which,  he  said,  was  neces- 
sitated by  a  promise  to  a  friend  who  was  going 
abroad,  but  he  failed  to  see  why  the  police 
should  inquire  into  his  private  affairs. 

Winter  did  not  press  him.  There  was  no 
need.  A  scapegrace's  record  could  always  be 
laid  bare  when  occasion  served.  But  one  ques- 
tion he  was  bound  to  put. 

"Have  you  any  theory,  however  remote  or 
far-fetched,  that  will  account  for  your  father's 
death  in  such  a  way?"  he  inquired. 

The  younger  Fenley  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 
A  half  consumed  whisky  and  soda  stood  on  a 
table ;  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  a  siphon  promised 
refreshers.  He  was  not  quite  sober,  but  could 
speak  lucidly. 

" Naturally,  I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about 
that,"  he  said,  wrinkling  his  forehead  in  the 
effort  to  concentrate  his  mind  and  express  him- 
self with  due  solemnity.  "It's  funny,  isn't  it, 
that  my  rifle  should  be  missing?" 


244  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Well,  yes." 

Some  sarcastic  inflection  in  Winter's  voice 
seemed  to  reach  a  rather  torpid  brain.  Fen- 
ley  looked  up  sharply. 

"Of  course,  funny  isn't  the  right  word,"  he 
said.  "I  mean  it's  odd,  a  bit  of  a  mystery. 
Why  should  anybody  take  my  gun  if  they 
wanted  to  shoot  my  poor  old  guv 'nor?  That 
beats  me.  It's  a  licker — eh,  what?" 

"It  is  more  important  to  know  why  any  one 
should  want  to  shoot  your  father. ' ' 

"That's  it.  Who  benefits?  Well,  I  suppose 
Hilton  and  I  will  be  better  off — no  one  else. 
And  I  didn't  do  it.  It's  silly  even  to  say 
so." 

"But  there  is  only  your  brother  left  in  your 
summary. ' ' 

"By  Jove,  yes.  That's  been  runnin'  in  my 
head.  It's  nonsense,  anyhow,  because  Hilton 
was  in  the  house.  I  wouldn't  believe  a  word 
he  said,  but  Sylvia,  and  Tomlinson,  and  Brodie, 
and  Harris  all  tell  the  same  yarn.  No ;  Hilton 
couldn't  have  done  it.  He's  ripe  for  any  mis- 
chief, is  Hilton,  but  he  can't  be  in  this  hole; 
now,  can  he  ? " 

They  could  extract  nothing  of  value  out  of 
Eobert,  and  left  him  after  a  brief  visit. 

In  the  interim,  Hilton  Fenley  had  kept  Tom- 
linson talking  about  the  crime.  The  dining- 
room  door  was  ajar,  and  he  knew  when  the  de- 
tectives had  gone  to  Eobert 's  room.  Then  he 


DINED  AND  WINED  245 

glanced  around  the  table,  and  affected  to  re- 
member the  decanter  of  port. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  feel  as  if  a  glass 
of  that  wine  would  be  a  good  notion  tonight. 
I  don't  suppose  the  Scotland  Yard  men  have 
finished  the  lot.  Just  send  for  it,  will  you?" 

Harris  brought  the  decanter,  and  Tomlinson 
was  gratified  by  seeing  that  his  favorite  bev- 
erage had  been  duly  appraised. 

"Sorry  if  I've  detained  you,"  said  Fenley, 
and  the  butler  went  out.  Eising,  Fenley  strolled 
to  the  door  and  closed  it.  Instantly  he  became 
energetic,  and  his  actions  bore  a  curious  simili- 
tude to  those  of  Winter  a  little  while  earlier. 
Pouring  the  wine  into  a  tumbler,  he  rinsed  the 
decanter  with  water,  and  partly  refilled  it  with 
the  contents  of  another  tumbler  previously 
secreted  in  the  sideboard,  stopping  rather  short 
of  the  amount  of  wine  returned  from  the  but- 
ler's room.  He  drank  the  remainder,  washed 
the  glass,  and  put  a  few  drops  of  whisky  into 
it. 

Carrying  the  other  tumbler  to  an  open  win- 
dow, he  threw  the  medicated  wine  into  a  drain 
under  a  water  spout,  and  making  assurance 
doubly  sure,  douched  the  same  locality  with 
water;  also,  he  rinsed  this  second  glass.  He 
seemed  to  be  rather  pleased  at  his  own  thor- 
oughness. 

As  Furneaux  had  said,  Hilton  Fenley  was 
cold-blooded  as  a  fish. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CLOSE  QUAKTEBS 

HUMAN  affairs  are  peculiarly  dependent  on 
the  weather.  It  is  not  easy  to  lay  down  a  law 
governing  this  postulate,  which,  indeed,  may  be 
scoffed  at  by  the  superficial  reasoner,  and  the 
progression  from  cause  to  effect  is  often  ob- 
scured by  contradictory  facts.  For  instance,  a 
fine  summer  means  a  good  harvest,  much  trav- 
eling, the  prolongation  of  holiday  periods,  a 
free  circulation  of  money,  and  the  consequent 
enhanced  prosperity  and  happiness  of  millions 
of  men  and  women.  But  there  are  more  sui- 
cides in  June  and  July  than  in  December  and 
January.  On  the  one  hand,  fine  weather  im- 
proves humanity's  lot;  on  the  other,  it  depresses 
the  individual. 

Let  the  logician  explain  these  curiously  diver- 
gent issues  as  he  may;  there  can  be  no  question 
that  the  quality  of  the  night  which  closed  a  day 
eventful  beyond  any  other  in  the  annals  of  Eox- 
ton  exercised  a  remarkable  influence  on  the  lives 
of  five  people.  It  was  a  perfect  night  in  June. 
There  was  no  moon;  the  stars  shone  dimly 
through  a  slight  haze;  but  the  sun  had  set  late 
and  would  rise  early,  and  his  complete  disap- 

246 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  247 

pearance  followed  so  small  a  chord  of  the 
diurnal  circle  that  his  light  was  never  wholly 
absent.  A  gentle  westerly  breeze  was  so 
zephyr-like  that  it  hardly  stirred  the  leaves  of 
the  trees,  but  it  wafted  the  scent  of  flowers  and 
meadow  land  into  open  windows,  and  was  grate- 
ful alike  to  the  just  and  the  unjust. 

Thus  to  romantic  minds  it  was  redolent  of 
romance;  and  as  Sylvia  Manning's  room  faced 
south  and  John  Trenholme's  faced  north,  and 
lay  nearly  opposite  each  other,  though  sep- 
arated by  a  rolling  mile  of  park,  woodland,  till- 
age i  nd  pasture,  it  is  not  altogether  incredible 
that  those  two,  gazing  out  at  the  same  hour, 
should  bridge  the  void  with  the  eyes  of  the  soul. 

It  was  a  night,  too,  that  invited  to  the  open. 

In  some  favored  lands,  where  the  almanac  is 
an  infallible  Clerk  of  the  Weather,  fine  nights 
succeed  each  other  with  the  monotonous  reg- 
ularity of  kings  in  an  Amurath  dynasty.  But 
the  British  climate,  a  slave  to  no  such  ordered 
sequence,  scatters  or  withholds  these  magic 
hours  almost  impartially  throughout  the  sea- 
sons, so  that  June  may  demand  overcoats  and 
umbrellas,  and  October  invite  Summer  raiment. 

Hence  this  superb  Summer's  night  found  cer- 
tain folk  in  Roxton  disinclined  to  forego  its  en- 
chantments. Trenholme,  trying  to  persuade 
himself  that  his  brooding  gaze  rested  on  the 
Elizabethan  roofs  and  gables  rising  above  the 
trees  because  of  some  rarely  spiritual  quality 


248  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

in  the  atmosphere,  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact 
that  the  hour  was  eleven. 

Some  men  issued  from  the  bar  parlor  and 
"snug"  beneath,  and  there  were  sounds  of  bolts 
being  shot  home  and  keys  turned  in  recognition 
of  the  curfew  imposed  by  the  licensing  laws. 
Then  the  artistic  temperament  arose  in  revolt. 
Chafing  already  against  the  narrow  confines  of 
the  best  room  the  White  Horse  Inn  could  pro- 
vide, it  burst  all  bounds  when  a  tired  potman  at- 
tempted unconsciously  to  lock  it  in. 

Grabbing  a  pipe  and  tobacco  pouch,  Tren- 
holme  ran  downstairs,  meeting  the  potman  in 
the  passage. 

"Get  me  a  key,  Bill,"  he  said.  "I  simply 
can't  endure  the  notion  of  bed  just  yet,  so  I'm 
off  for  a  stroll.  I  don't  want  to  keep  any  one 
waiting  up,  and  I  suppose  I  can  have  a  key  of 
sorts." 

Now  it  happened  that  the  proprietor  of  the 
inn  was  absent  at  a  race  meeting,  and  Eliza  was 
in  charge.  Trenholme's  request  was  passed 
on  to  her,  and  a  key  was  forthcoming. 

Hatless,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  hands  in  pockets, 
Trenholme  sauntered  into  the  village  street. 
Romance  was  either  a  dull  jade  or  growing  old 
and  sedate  in  Roxton.  Nearly  every  house  was 
in  darkness,  and  more  than  one  dog  barked  be- 
cause of  a  passing  footstep. 

About  half  past  eleven,  Sylvia  Manning,  sit- 
ting in  melancholy  near  her  window  after  an 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  249 

hour  of  musing,  heard  a  light  tap  on  the 
door. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  recognizing  the  reason 
of  this  late  intrusion.  An  elderly  woman  en- 
tered. She  was  an  attendant  charged  with 
special  care  of  Mrs.  Fenley.  A  trained  nurse 
would  have  refused  to  adopt  the  lenient  treat- 
ment of  the  patient  enjoined  by  the  late  head  of 
the  family,  so  this  woman  was  engaged  because 
she  was  honest,  faithful,  rather  stupid  and 
obeyed  orders. 

1 '  She  has  quieted  down  now,  miss,  and  is  fast 
asleep,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "You  may  feel 
sure  she  won't  wake  before  six  or  seven.  She 
never  does." 

The  "she"  of  this  message  was  Mrs.  Fenley. 
Eural  England  does  not  encourage  unnecessary 
courtesy  nor  harbor  such  foreign  intruders  as 
"madam."  The  reiterated  pronoun  grated  on 
Sylvia;  she  was  disinclined  for  further  talk. 

"Thank  you,  Parker,"  she  said.  "I  am  glad 
to  know  that.  Good  night." 

But  Parker  had  something  to  say,  and  this 
was  a  favorable  opportunity. 

"She's  been  awful  bad  today,  miss.  It  can't 
go  on." 

"That  is  hardly  surprising,  taking  into  ac- 
count the  shock  Mrs.  Fenley  received  this  morn- 
ing." 

1 '  That 's  what  I  have  in  me  mind,  miss.  She 's 
changed." 


250  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

1 '  How  changed  ?  You  need  not  close  the  door. 
Never  mind  the  light.  It  is  hardly  dark  when 
the  eyes  become  used  to  the  gloom.'* 

Parker  drew  nearer.  Obeying  the  instincts 
of  her  class,  she  assumed  a  confidential  tone. 

"Well,  miss,  you  know  why  you  went  out!" 

"Yes,"  said  Sylvia  rather  curtly.  She  had 
left  the  invalid  when  the  use  of  a  hypodermic 
syringe  became  essential  if  an  imminent  out- 
burst of  hysteria  was  to  be  prevented.  The  girl 
had  no  power  to  interfere,  and  was  too  young 
and  inexperienced  to  make  an  effective  protest ; 
but  she  was  convinced  that  to  encourage  a  vice 
was  not  the  best  method  of  treating  it.  More 
than  once  she  had  spoken  of  the  matter  to  Mor- 
timer Fenley;  but  he  merely  said  that  he  had 
tried  every  known  means  to  cure  his  wife,  short 
of  immuring  her  in  an  asylum,  and  had  failed. 
"She  is  happy  in  a  sort  of  a  way,"  he  would 
add,  with  a  certain  softening  of  voice  and  man- 
ner. "Let  her  continue  so."  Thus  a  minor 
tragedy  was  drifting  to  its  close  when  Fenley 
himself  was  so  rudely  robbed  of  life. 

"As  a  rule,  miss,"  went  on  the  attendant, 
"she  soon  settles  after  a  dose,  but  this  time  she 
seemed  to  pass  into  a  sort  of  a  trance.  Gen  'rally 
her  words  are  broken-like  an'  wild,  an'  I  pays 
no  heed  to  'em ;  but  tonight  she  talked  wonder- 
ful clear,  all  about  India  at  first,  an*  of  a  band 
playin',  with  sogers  marchin'  past.  Then  she 
spoke  about  some  people  called  coolies.  There 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  251 

was  a  lot  about  them,  in  lines  an'  tea  gardens. 
An'  she  seemed  to  be  speaMn'  to  another  Mrs. 
Fenley." 

The  woman's  voice  sank  to  an  awe-stricken 
whisper,  and  Sylvia  shivered  somewhat  in  sym- 
pathy. " Another  Mrs.  Fenley!"  It  was  com- 
mon knowledge  in  the  household  that  Fenley 
had  married  a  second  time,  but  the  belief  was 
settled  that  the  first  wife  was  dead ;  Parker,  by 
an  unrehearsed  dramatic  touch,  conveyed  the 
notion  that  the  unhappy  creature  in  a  neighbor- 
ing room  had  been  conversing  with  a  ghost. 

Somewhat  shaken  and  perturbed,  Sylvia 
wished  more  than  ever  to  be  alone,  so  she 
brought  her  informant  back  to  the  matter  in 
hand. 

"I  don't  see  that  Mrs.  Fenley 's  rambling  ut- 
terances give  rise  to  any  fear,  of  immediate 
collapse,"  she  said,  striving  to  speak  com- 
posedly. 

"No,  miss.  That  isn't  it  at  all.  I  was  just 
tellin'  you  what  happened.  There  was  a  lot 
more.  She  might  ha'  been  givin'  the  story  of 
her  life.  But — please  forgive  me,  miss,  for 
what  I'm  goin'  to  say.  I  think  some  one  ought 
to  know — I  do,  reelly — an'  you're  the  only  one 
I  dare  tell  it  to." 

"Oh,  what  is  it!" 

The  cry  was  wrung  from  the  girl's  heart. 
She  had  borne  a  good  deal  that  day,  and  feared 
some  sinister  revelation  now. 


252  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"She  remembered  that  poor  Mr.  Fenley  was 
dead,  but  didn't  appear  so  greatly  upset.  She 
was  more  puzzled-like — kep'  on  mutterin': 
'Who  did  it?  Who  could  have  the  cool  darin' 
to  shoot  him  dead  in  broad  daylight,  at  his  own 
door,  before  his  servants!'  She  was  sort  of 
forcin'  herself  to  think,  to  find  out,  just  as  if  it 
was  a  riddle,  an'  the  right  answer  was  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue.  An'  then,  all  at  once,  she  gev 
a  queer  little  laugh.  'Why,  of  course,  it  was 
Hilton,'  she  said." 

Sylvia,  relieved  and  vastly  indignant,  rose 
impetuously. 

"Why  do  you  trouble  to  bring  such  nonsense 
to  my  ears?"  she  cried. 

But  Parker  was  stolid  and  dogged. 

"I  had  to  tell  some  one,"  she  vowed,  deter- 
mined to  put  herself  straight  with  one  of  her 
own  sex.  "I  know  her  ways.  If  that's  in  her 
mind  she'll  be  shoutin'  it  out  to  every  maid 
who  comes  near  her  tomorrow;  an'  I  reelly 
thought,  miss,  it  was  wise  to  tell  you  tonight, 
because  such  a  thing  would  soon  cause  a  scan- 
dal, an'  it  should  be  stopped." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  and  I  ought  to  be 
obliged  to  you  for  being  so  considerate.  But 
no  one  would  pay  heed  to  my  aunt's  ravings. 
Every  person  in  the  house  knows  that  the  state- 
ment is  absurd.  Mr.  Hilton  was  in  his  room. 
I  myself  saw  him  go  upstairs  after  exchanging 
a  few  words  with  his  father  in  the  hall,  and  he 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  253 

came  down  again  instantly  when  Harris  ran  to 
fetch  him." 

"I  understand  that,  miss,  an'  I'm  not  so  silly 
as  to  think  there  is  any  sense  in  her  blamin'  Mr. 
Hilton.  But  it  made  my  flesh  creep  to  hear  all 
the  rest  so  clear  an'  straightforward,  an'  then 
that  she  should  say:  'Hilton  did  it,  the  black 
beast.  He  always  hated  Bob  an'  me,  because 
we  were  white,  an'  the  jungle  strain  has  come 
out  at  last.'  Oh,  it  was  somethink  dreadful 
to  hear  her  laughin'  at  her  cleverness. 
I " 

" Please,  please,  don't  repeat  any  more  of 
these  horrible  things,"  cried  the  girl,  for  the 
strain  was  becoming  unbearable. 

"I  agree  with  you,  miss.  They  aren't  fit  to 
be  spoke  of;  an'  I  say,  with  all  due  respec', 
that  they  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  leak  out.  You 
know  what  young  maid  servants  are  like. 
They're  bound  to  chatter.  My  idee  is  that 
another  nurse  should  be  engaged  tomorrow,  a 
woman  old  enough  to  hold  her  tongue  an'  mind 
her  own  business ;  then  the  two  of  us  can  take 
turns  at  duty,  so  as  to  keep  them  housemaids 
out  of  the  way  altogether." 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are  right.  I'll  speak  to 
Mr.  Hilton  in  the  morning.  Thank  you,  Parker. 
I  see  now  that  you  meant  well,  and  I'm  sorry 
if  I  spoke  sharply." 

"I'm  not  surprised,  miss.  It  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant thing  to  have  to  say,  nor  for  you  to  hear,  but 


254  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

duty  is  duty.  Good  night,  miss,  I  hope  you'll 
sleep  well." 

Sleep !  Parker  should  not  have  conjured  up  a 
new  apparition  if  Sylvia  were  to  seek  the  solace 
of  untroubled  rest.  At  present  the  girl  felt 
that  she  had  never  before  been  so  distressfully 
awake.  Splendidly  vital  in  mind  and  body  as 
she  was,  she  almost  yielded  now  to  a  morbid 
horror  of  her  environment.  Generations  of  men 
and  women  had  lived  and  died  in  that  ancient 
house,  and  tonight  dim  shapes  seemed  to  throng 
its  chambers  and  corridors.  Physically  fear- 
less, she  owned  to  a  feminine  dread  of  the  un- 
known. It  would  be  a  relief  to  get  away  from 
this  abode  of  grief  and  mystery.  The  fantastic 
dreaming  of  the  unhappy  creature  crooning 
memories  of  a  past  life  and  a  lost  husband  had 
unnerved  her.  She  resolved  to  seek  the  fresh 
air,  and  wander  through  gardens  and  park  until 
the  fever  in  her  mind  had  abated. 

Now  a  rule  of  the  house  ordained  that  all 
doors  should  be  locked  and  lower  windows 
latched  at  midnight.  A  night  watchman  made 
certain  rounds  each  hour,  pressing  a  key  into 
indicating-clocks  at  various  points  to  show  that 
he  had  been  alert.  Mortimer  Fenley  had  been 
afraid  of  fire ;  there  was  so  much  old  woodwork 
in  the  building  that  it  would  burn  readily,  and 
a  short  circuit  in  the  electrical  installation  was 
always  possible,  though  every  device  had  been 
adopted  to  render  it  not  only  improbable  but 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  255 

harmless.  After  midnight  the  door  bells  and 
others  communicated  with  a  switchboard  in  the 
watchman's  room;  and  a  burglary  alarm,  which 
the  man  adjusted  during  his  first  round,  rang 
there  continuously  if  disturbed. 

Sylvia,  leaving  the  door  of  her  bedroom  ajar, 
went  to  the  servants'  quarters  by  a  back  stair- 
case. There  she  found  MacBain,  the  watchman, 
eating  his  supper. 

"I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could  sleep,"  she 
explained,  "so  I  am  going  out  into  the  park 
for  a  while.  I'll  unlatch  one  of  the  drawing- 
room  windows  and  disconnect  the  alarm;  and 
when  I  come  in  again  I'll  tell  you." 

"Very  well,  miss,"  said  MacBain.  "It's  a 
fine  night,  and  you'll  take  no  harm." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  rabbits,  if  that  is  what 
you  mean,"  she  said  lightly,  for  the  very 
sound  of  the  man's  voice  had  dispelled 
vapors. 

"Oh,  there's  more  than  rabbits  in  the  park 
tonight,  miss.  Two  policemen  are  stationed  in 
the  Quarry  Wood." 

"Why?"  she  said,  with  some  surprise. 

"They  don't  know  themselves,  miss.  The  In- 
spector ordered  it.  I  met  them  coming  on  duty 
at  ten  o'clock.  They'll  be  relieved  at  four. 
They  have  instructions  to  allow  no  one  to  enter 
the  wood.  That 's  all  they  know. ' ' 

"If  I  go  there,  then,  shall  I  be  locked  up?" 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,  miss,"  smiled  MacBain. 


256  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"But  I'd  keep  away  from  it  if  I  was  you.  'Let 
sleeping  dogs  lie'  is  a  good  motto." 

"But  these  are  not  sleeping  dogs.  They're 
wide-awake  policemen." 

"Mebbe,  miss.  They  have  a  soft  job,  I'm 
thinking.  Of  course " 

The  man  checked  himself,  but  Sylvia  guessed 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind. 

"You  were  going  to  say  that  the  wretch  who 
killed  my  uncle  hid  in  that  wood?"  she 
prompted  him. 

"Yes,  miss,  I  was." 

"He  is  not  there  now.  He  must  have  run 
away  while  we  were  too  terrified  to  take  any 
steps  to  capture  him.  Who  in  the  world  could 
"have  wished  to  kill  Mr.  Fenley!" 

"Ah,  miss,  there's  no  knowing.  Those  you'd 
least  suspect  are  often  the  worst." 

MacBain  shook  his  head  over  this  cryptic 
remark ;  he  glanced  at  a  clock.  It  was  five  min- 
utes to  twelve. 

"It's  rather  late,  miss,"  he  hinted.  Sylvia 
agreed  with  him,  but  she  was  young  enough  to 
be  headstrong. 

"I  sha'n't  remain  out  very  long,"  she  said. 
"I  ought  to  feel  tired,  but  I  don't;  and  I  hope 
the  fresh  air  will  make  me  sleepy." 

To  reach  the  drawing-room,  she  had  to  cross 
the  hall.  Its  parquet  floor  creaked  under  her 
rapid  tread.  A  single  lamp  among  a  cluster 
in  the  ceiling  burned  there  all  night,  and  she 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  257 

cjuld  not  help  giving  one  quick  look  at  the  oaken 
settle  which  stood  under  the  cross  gallery;  she 
was  glad  when  the  drawing-room  door  closed 
behind  her. 

She  had  no  difficulty  with  the  window,  but 
the  outer  shutters  creaked  when  she  opened 
them.  Then  she  passed  on  to  the  first  of  the 
Italian  terraces,  and  stood  there  irresolutely 
a  few  minutes,  gazing  alternately  at  the  sky  and 
the  black  masses  of  the  trees.  At  first  she  was 
a  trifle  nervous.  The  air  was  so  still,  the  park 
so  solemn  in  its  utter  quietude,  that  the  sense 
of  adventure  was  absent,  and  the  funeral  silence 
that  prevailed  was  almost  oppressive. 

Half  inclined  to  go  back,  woman-like  she  went 
forward.  Then  the  sweet,  clinging  scent  of  a 
rose  bed  drew  her  like  a  magnet.  She  de- 
scended a  flight  of  steps  and  gained  the  second 
terrace.  She  thought  of  Trenholme  and  the  pic- 
ture, and  the  impulse  to  stroll  as  far  as  the 
lake  seized  her  irresistibly.  Why  not?  The 
grass  was  short,  and  the  dew  would  not  be 
heavy.  Even  if  she  wetted  her  feet,  what  did  it 
matter,  as  she  would  undress  promptly  on  re- 
turning to  her  room!  Besides,  she  had  never 
seen  the  statue  on  just  such  a  night,  though 
she  had  often  visited  it  by  moonlight. 

La  Eochefoucauld  is  responsible  for  the  oft 
quoted  epigram  that  the  woman  who  hesitates 
is  lost,  and  Sylvia  had  certainly  hesitated.  At 
any  rate,  after  a  brief  debate  in  which  the  argu- 


258  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

ments  were  distinctly  one-sided,  she  resolved 
that  she  might  as  well  have  an  object  in  view  as 
stroll  aimlessly  in  any  other  direction;  so, 
gathering  her  skirts  to  keep  them  dry,  she  set 
off  across  the  park. 

She  might  have  been  halfway  to  the  lake 
when  a  man  emerged  from  the  same  window  of 
the  drawing-room,  ran  to  the  terrace  steps, 
stnmbled  down  them  so  awkwardly  that  he 
nearly  fell,  and  swore  at  his  own  clumsiness  in 
so  doing.  He  negotiated  the  next  flight  more 
carefully,  but  quickened  his  pace  again  into  a 
run  when  he  reached  the  open.  The  girl 's  figure 
was  hardly  visible,  but  he  knew  she  was  there, 
and  the  distance  between  pursued  and  pursuer 
soon  lessened. 

Sylvia,  wholly  unaware  of  being  followed,  did 
not  hurry;  but  she  was  constitutionally  incap- 
able of  loitering,  and  moved  over  the  rustling 
grass  with  a  swiftness  that  brought  her  to  the 
edge  of  the  lake  while  the  second  inmate  of 
The  Towers  abroad  that  night  was  yet  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  distant. 

In  the  dim  light  the  statue  assumed  a  lifelike 
semblance  that  was  at  once  startling  and  won- 
derful. Color  flies  with  the  sun,  and  the  white 
marble  did  not  depend  now  on  tint  alone  to 
differentiate  it  from  flesh  and  blood.  Seen  thus 
indistinctly,  it  might  almost  be  a  graceful  and 
nearly  nude  woman  standing  there,  and  some 
display  of  will  power  on  the  girl's  part  was 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  259 

called  for  before  she  approached  nearer  and 
stifled  the  first  breath  of  apprehension.  Then, 
delighted  by  the  vague  beauty  of  the  scene,  with 
senses  soothed  by  the  soft  plash  of  the  cascade, 
she  decided  to  walk  around  the  lake  to  the  spot 
where  Trenholme  must  have  been  hidden  when 
he  painted  that  astonishingly  vivid  picture.  Its 
bold  treatment  and  simplicity  of  note  rendered 
it  an  easy  subject  to  carry  in  the  mind's  eye, 
and  Sylvia  thought  it  would  be  rather  nice  to 
conjure  up  the  same  effect  in  the  prevailing  con- 
ditions of  semi-darkness  and  mystery.  She 
need  not  risk  tearing  her  dress  among  the  briers 
which  clung  to  the  hillside.  Knowing  every 
inch  of  the  ground,  she  could  follow  the  shore  of 
the  lake  until  nearly  opposite  the  statue,  and 
then  climb  a  few  feet  among  the  bushes  at  a 
point  where  a  zigzag  path,  seldom  used  and 
nearly  obliterated  by  undergrowth,  led  to  the 
clump  of  cedars. 

She  was  still  speeding  along  the  farther  bank 
when  a  man's  form  loomed  in  sight  in  the  park, 
and  her  heart  throbbed  tumultuously  with  a  new 
and  real  terror.  Who  could  it  be?  Had  some 
one  seen  her  leaving  the  house!  That  was  the 
explanation  she  hoped  for  at  first,  but  her 
breath  came  in  sharp  gusts  and  her  breast 
heaved  when  she  remembered  how  one  deadly 
intruder  at  least  had  broken  into  that  quiet 
haven  during  the  early  hours  of  the  past  day. 

Whoever  the  oncomer  might  prove  to  be,  he 


260  MORTIMER  FENLET 

was  losing  no  time,  and  he  was  yet  some  twenty 
yards  or  more  away  from  the  statue — itself  sep- 
arated from  Sylvia  by  about  the  same  width  of 
water — when  she  recognized,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  the  somewhat  cumbrous  form  and  gram- 
pus-like puffing  of  Robert  Fenley. 

Evidently  he  was  rather  blear-eyed,  since  he 
seemed  to  mistake  the  white  marble  Aphrodite 
for  a  girl  in  a  black  dress;  or  perhaps  he  as- 
sumed that  Sylvia  was  there,  and  thought  he 
would  see  her  at  any  moment. 

"I  say,  Sylvia!"  he  cried.  "I  say,  old  girl, 
what  the  deuce  are  you  doin' — in  the  park — at 
this  time  o'  night?" 

The  words  were  clear  enough,  but  there  was 
a  suspicious  thickness  in  the  voice.  Robert  had 
been  drinking,  and  Sylvia  had  learned  already 
to  abhor  and  shun  a  man  under  the  influence  of 
intoxicants  more  than  anything  else  in  the  wide 
world.  She  did  not  fear  her  "cousin."  For 
years  she  had  tolerated  him,  and  that  day  she 
had  come  to  dislike  him  actively,  but  she  had  not 
the  least  intention  of  entering  into  an  explana- 
tion of  her  actions  with  him  at  that  hour  and 
under  existing  circumstances.  She  had  re- 
covered from  her  sudden  fright,  and  was  merely 
annoyed  now,  and  bent  her  wits  to  the  combined 
problems  of  escape  and  regaining  the  house  un- 
seen. 

Remembering  that  her  white  face  and  hands 
might  reveal  her  whereabouts  she  turned,  bent 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  261 

and  crept  up  the  slope  until  a  bush  afforded 
welcome  concealment.  Some  thorns  scratched 
her  ankles,  but  she  gave  no  heed  to  such  trivial 
mishaps.  A  rabbit  jumped  out  from  under  her 
feet,  and  it  cost  something  of  an  effort  to  re- 
press a  slight  scream;  but — to  her  credit  be  it 
said — she  set  her  lips  tightly,  and  was  almost 
amused  by  the  game  of  hide  and  seek  thus  un- 
expectedly thrust  on  her. 

Meanwhile  Kobert  had  reached  the  little 
promontory  on  which  the  statue  was  poised, 
and  no  Sylvia  was  in  sight. 

* '  Sylvia ! "  he  cried  again.  ' '  Where  are  you  f 
No  use  hidin',  because  I  know  you're  here! 
Dash  it  all,  if  you  wanted  a  bit  of  a  stroll  why 
didn't  you  send  for  me!  You  knew  I'd  come 
like  a  shot— eh,  what!" 

He  listened  and  peered,  but  might  as  well 
have  been  deaf  and  blind  for  aught  he  could 
distinguish  of  the  girl  he  sought. 

Then  he  laughed;  and  a  peculiar  quality  in 
that  chuckle  of  mirth  struck  a  new  note  of 
anxiety,  even  of  fear,  in  Sylvia 's  laboring  heart. 

"So  you  won't  be  good!"  he  guffawed 
thickly.  "Playin'  Puss  in  the  Corner,  I  sup- 
pose? Very  well,  I  give  you  fair  warnin'.  I 
mean  to  ^atch  you,  an'  when  I  do  I'll  claim  for- 
feit. .  .  .  7  don't  mind.  Fact  is,  I  like  it. 
It's  rather  fun  chasm'  one's  best  girl  in  the 
dark.  .  .  .  Dashed  if  it  isn't  better 'n  a  bit  out 
of  a  French  farce.  ,  .  Puss !  Puss !  .  .  .  I 


262  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

see  you.  .  .  .  Hidin'  there  among  the  bushy 
bushes.  ...  Gad!  How's  that  for  a  test  after 
a  big  night?  Bushy  bushes!  I  must  not  for- 
get that.  Try  it  on  one  of  the  b-hoys.  .  .  . 
Now,  come  out  of  it !  .  .  .  Naughty  puss!  I'll 
get  you  in  a  tick,  see  if  I  don't!" 

He  was  keeping  to  the  track  Sylvia  herself 
had  taken,  since  the  lie  of  the  land  was  familiar 
to  him  as  to  her.  Talking  to  himself,  cackling 
at  his  own  flashes  of  wit,  halting  after  each  few 
paces  to  search  the  immediate  neighborhood 
and  detect  any  guiding  sound,  he  was  now  on  the 
same  side  of  the  lake  as  the  girl,  and  coming 
perilously  near.  At  each  step,  apparently,  he 
found  the  growing  obscurity  more  tantalizing. 
He  still  continued  calling  aloud:  "Sylvia! 
Sylvia,  I  say!  Chuck  it,  can't  you?  You  must 
give  in,  you  know.  I'll  be  grabbin'  you  in  a 
minute."  There  were  not  lacking  muttered 
ejaculations,  which  showed  that  he  was  losing 
his  temper. 

Once  he  swore  so  emphatically  that  she 
thought  he  was  acknowledging  himself  beaten; 
but  some  glimmering  notion  that  she  was 
crouching  almost  within  reach,  and  would  have 
the  laugh  of  him  in  the  morning,  flogged  him  to 
fresh  endeavor.  Now  he  was  within  ten  yards, 
eight,  five!  In  another  few  seconds  his  hand 
might  touch  her,  and  she  quivered  at  the 
thought.  If  concealment  could  not  save  her  she 
must  seek  refuge  in  flight,  since  therein  lay  a 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  263 

sure  means  of  escape.  Not  daring  to  delay,  she 
tried  to  stand  upright,  but  felt  a  pull  on  her 
dress  as  if  a  hand  were  detaining  her.  It  was 
only  a  brier,  insidiously  entangled  in  a  fold  of 
her  skirt;  but  she  was  rather  excited  now,  and 
there  was  little  to  be  gained  by  excess  of  cau- 
tion, for  any  rapid  movement  must  betray  her. 
Stooping,  she  caught  the  thorn-laden  branch 
and  tore  it  out  of  the  soft  material. 

Fenley  heard  the  ripping  sound  instantly. 

' '  Ha !  There  you  are,  my  beauty !  Got  you 
this  time!"  he  cried,  and  plunged  forward. 

Sylvia  sprang  from  her  hiding-place  like  a 
frightened  fawn  and  valiantly  essayed  the  steep 
embankment.  Therein  she  erred.  She  would 
have  succeeded  in  evading  her  pursuer  had  she 
leaped  down  to  the  open  strip  of  turf  close  to 
the  water,  dodging  him  before  he  realized  what 
was  happening.  As  it  was,  the  briers  spread 
a  hundred  cruel  claws  against  her;  with  each 
upward  step  she  encountered  greater  resist- 
ance ;  desperation  only  added  to  her  panic,  and 
she  struggled  f  renziedly. 

The  man,  unhampered  by  garments  such  as 
clogged  each  inch  of  Sylvia's  path,  pushed  on 
with  renewed  ardor.  He  no  longer  spoke,  for 
his  hearing  alone  could  help  him  now,  the  girl's 
black-robed  form  being  utterly  merged  in  the 
dense  shadow  cast  by  brushwood  and  cedars. 
He,  however,  was  silhouetted  against  the  lumi- 
nous gray  of  the  park,  and  Sylvia,  casting  a 


264  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

frantic  glance  over  her  shoulder,  saw  him  dis- 
tinctly. In  her  distress  she  fancied  she  could 
feel  his  hot  breath  on  her  neck ;  and  when  some 
unusually  venomous  branch  clutched  her  across 
the  knees,  and  rendered  farther  movement  im- 
possible until  her  dress  was  extricated,  she 
wailed  aloud  in  anger  and  dismay. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  cried,  and  her  voice 
was  tremulous  and  broken.  "I  warn  you  that 
if  you  persist  in  following  me  I  shall  strike 
you!" 

"Will  you,  by  Jove!"  cried  Robert  elatedly. 
"I'd  risk  more  than  that,  my  dear!  A  kiss  for 
every  blow !  Only  fair,  you  know !  Eh,  what  I ' ' 

On  he  came.  He  was  so  near  that  in  one 
active  bound  he  would  be  upon  her,  but  he  ad- 
vanced warily,  with  hands  outstretched. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do!"  she  sobbed.  "Go 
back,  you  brute!  I — I  hate  you.  There  are 
policemen  in  the  wood.  I'll  scream  for  help!" 

"No  need,  Miss  Manning,"  said  a  calm  voice 
which  seemed  to  come  from  the  circumambient 
air.  "Don't  cry  out  or  be  alarmed,  no  matter 
what  happens ! ' ' 

A  hand,  not  Robert  Fenley's  caught  her 
shoulder  in  a  reassuring  grip.  A  tall  figure 
brushed  by,  and  she  heard  a  curious  sound  that 
had  a  certain  smack  in  it — a  hard  smack,  com- 
bined with  a  thudding  effect,  as  if  some  one  had 
smitten  a  pillow  with  a  fist.  A  fist  it  was  as- 
suredly, and  a  hard  one ;  but  it  smote  no  pillow. 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  265 

With  a  gurgling  cough,  Robert  Fenley  toppled 
headlong  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  and  lay  there 
probably  some  minutes,  for  the  man  who  had 
hit  him  knew  how  and  where  to  strike. 

Sylvia  did  not  scream.  She  had  recognized 
Trenholme's  voice,  but  she  felt  absurdly  like 
fainting.  Perhaps  she  swayed  slightly,  and 
her  rescuer  was  aware  of  it,  for  he  gathered  her 
up  in  his  arms  as  he  might  carry  a  scared  child, 
nor  did  he  set  her  on  her  feet  when  they  were 
clear  of  the  trees  and  in  the  open  park. 

"  You  are  quite  safe  now,"  he  said  soothingly. 
"  You  are  greatly  upset,  of  course,  and  you  need 
a  minute  or  two  to  pull  yourself  together;  but 
no  one  will  hurt  you  while  I  am  here.  When 
you  feel  able  to  speak,  you'll  tell  me  where  to 
take  you,  and  I'll  be  your  escort." 

"I  can  speak  now,  thank  you,"  said  Sylvia, 
with  a  composure  that  was  somewhat  remark- 
able. " Please  put  me  down!" 

He  obeyed,  but  she  imagined  he  gave  her  a 
silent  hug  before  his  clasp  relaxed.  Even  then 
his  left  hand  still  rested  on  her  shoulder  in  a 
protective  way. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET 

THAT  John  Trenholme  should  be  in  the  right 
place  at  the  right  moment,  and  that  the  place 
should  happen  to  be  one  where  his  presence  was 
urgently  required  in  Sylvia  Manning's  behalf, 
was  not  such  a  far-fetched  coincidence  as  it 
might  be  deemed,  for  instance,  by  a  jury. 
Juries  are  composed  mainly  of  bald-headed 
men,  men  whose  shining  pates  have  been  de- 
nuded of  hair  by  years  and  experience,  and 
these  factors  dry  the  heart  as  surely  as  they 
impoverish  the  scalp.  Consequently,  juries  (in 
bulk,  be  it  understood;  individual  jurors  may, 
perhaps,  retain  the  emotional  equipment  of  a 
Chatterton)  are  skeptical  when  asked  to  accept 
the  vagaries  of  the  artistic  temperament  in  ex- 
tenuation of  some  so-called  irrational  action. 

In  the  present  case  counsel  for  the  defense 
would  plead  that  his  clients  (Sylvia  would  un- 
doubtedly figure  in  the  charge)  were  moved  by 
an  overwhelming  impulse  shared  in  common. 
It  was  a  glorious  night,  he  might  urge;  each 
had  been  thinking  of  the  other;  each  elected  to 
stroll  forth  under  the  stars;  their  sympathies 
were  linked  by  the  strange  circumstances  which 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    267 

had  led  to  the  production  of  a  noteworthy  pic- 
ture— what  more  likely  than  that  they  should 
visit  the  scene  to  which  that  picture  owed  its 
genesis  ? 

Trenholme,  it  might  be  held,  had  not  know- 
ingly reached  that  stage  of  soul-sickness  which 
brings  the  passionate  cry  to  Valentine's  lips: 

Except  I  be  by  Sylvia  in  the  night, 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale; 
Unless  I  look  on  Sylvia  in  the  day, 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon. 

"But,  gentlemen,"  the  wily  one  would  con- 
tinue, "that  indefinable  excitation  of  the  nerv- 
ous system  which  is  summed  up  in  the  one 
small  word  'love'  must  have  a  beginning;  and 
whether  that  beginning  springs  from  spore  or 
germ,  it  is  admittedly  capable  of  amazingly 
rapid  growth.  The  male  defendant  may  not 
even  have  been  aware  of  its  existence,  but  sub- 
sequent events  establish  the  diagnosis  beyond 
cavil;  and  I  would  remind  you  that  the  melo- 
dious lines  I  have  just  quoted  could  not  have 
been  written  by  our  immortal  bard,  Shake- 
speare, if  two  gentlemen  of  Verona,  and  two 
Veronese  ladies  as  well,  had  not  yielded  to  in- 
fluences not  altogether  unlike  those  which  gov- 
erned my  clients  on  this  memorable  occasion." 

Juries  invariably  treat  Shakespeare's  opin- 
ions with  profound  respect.  They  know  they 
ought  to  be  well  acquainted  with  his  "works," 


268  MORTIMER  FENLET 

but  they  are  not,  and  hope  to  conceal  their  ig- 
norance by  accepting  the  poet's  philosophy 
without  reservation. 

If,  however,  owing  to  the  forensic  skill  of  an 
advocate,  romance  might  be  held  accountable 
for  the  wanderings  of  John  and  Sylvia,  what  of 
Robert?  He,  at  least,  was  not  under  its  magic 
spell.  He,  when  the  fateful  hour  struck,  was 
merely  drinking  himself  drowsy.  To  explain 
him,  witnesses  would  be  needed,  and  who  more 
credible  than  a  Superintendent  and  Detective 
Inspector  of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Depart- 
ment! 

When  Winter  had  smoked,  and  Furneaux  had 
contributed  some  personal  reminiscences  the 
whole  aim  and  object  of  which  was  the  perplex- 
ing and  mystification  of  that  discreet  person, 
Tomlinson,  the  two  retired  to  their  room  at  an 
early  hour.  The  butler  pressed  them  hospitably 
to  try  the  house's  special  blend  of  Scotch 
whisky,  but  they  had  declined  resolutely.  Both 
acknowledged  to  an  unwonted  lassitude  and 
sleepiness — symptoms  which  Hilton  Fenley 
might  expect  and  inquire  about.  When  they 
were  gone,  the  major  domo  sat  down  to  review 
the  day's  doings. 

His  master's  death  at  the  hands  of  a  mur- 
derer had  shocked  and  saddened  him  far  more 
than  his  manner  betrayed.  If  some  fantastic 
chain  of  events  brought  Tomlinson  to  the  scaf- 
fold he  would  still  retain  the  demeanor  of  an 


TEE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    269 

exemplary  butler.  But  beneath  the  externals 
of  his  office  he  had  a  heart  and  a  brain ;  and  his 
heart  grieved  for  a  respected  employer,  and  his 
brain  told  him  that  Scotland  Yard  was  no  wiser 
than  he  when  it  came  to  suspecting  a  likely  per- 
son of  having  committed  the  crime,  let  alone 
arresting  the  suspect  and  proving  his  guilt. 

Of  course,  therein  Tomlinson  was  in  error. 
Even  butlers  of  renown  have  their  limitations, 
and  his  stopped  far  short  of  the  peculiar  science 
of  felon-hunting  in  which  Winter  and  Furneaux 
were  geniuses,  each  in  his  own  line. 

Assuredly  he  would  have  been  vastly  aston- 
ished could  he  have  seen  their  movements  when 
the  bedroom  door  closed  on  them.  In  fact,  his 
trained  ear  might  have  found  some  new  quality 
in  such  a  commonplace  thing  as  the  closing  of 
the  door.  Every  lock  and  bolt  and  catch  in  The 
Towers  was  in  perfect  working  order,  yet  the 
lock  of  this  door  failed  to  click,  for  the  excellent 
reason  that  it  was  jammed  by  a  tiny  wedge. 
Hence,  it  could  be  opened  noiselessly  if  need  be ; 
and  lest  a  hinge  might  squeak  each  hinge  was 
forthwith  drenched  with  vaseline.  Further,  a 
tiny  circlet  of  India  rubber,  equipped  with  a 
small  spike,  was  placed  between  door  and  jamb. 

Then,  murmuring  in  undertones  when  they 
spoke,  the  detectives  unpacked  their  portman- 
teaux. Winter  produced  no  article  out  of  the 
ordinary  run,  but  Furneaux  unrolled  a  knotted 
contrivance  which  proved  to  be  a  rope  ladder. 


270  MORTIMER  FENLEYi 

"One  or  both  of  us  may  have  to  go  out  by 
the  window/'  he  said.  "At  any  rate,  we  have 
Wellington's  authority  for  the  military  axiom 
that  a  good  leader  always  provides  a  line  of 
retreat." 

"I  wonder  what  became  of  the  rest  of  that 
wine?"  said  Winter,  rolling  the  beer  bottle  in 
a  shirt  and  stowing  it  away. 

"I  didn't  dare  ask.  Tomlinson  can  put  two 
and  two  together  rather  cleverly.  He  almost  in- 
terfered when  Harris  brought  the  decanter,  so 
I  dropped  the  wine  question  like  a  hot  potato." 

"It  had  gone,  though,  when  we  came  back 
from  Robert's  room.  Hilton  sent  for  it.  Bet 
you  another  new  hat  he  emptied " 

"You'll  get  no  more  new  hats  out  of  me," 
growled  Furneaux  savagely,  giving  an  extra 
pressure  to  a  pair  of  sharp  hooks  which  gripped 
the  window  sill,  and  from  which  the  rope  ladder 
could  be  dropped  to  the  ground  instantly. 

"Sorry.  Where  did  you  retrieve  that  dirty 
towel?"  For  the  little  man  had  taken  from  a 
pocket  an  object  which  merited  the  description, 
and  was  placing  it  in  his  bag. 

"It's  one  of  Hilton's.  He  used  it  to  wipe 
bark  moss  off  his  clothes.  Queer  thing  that 
such  rascals  always  omit  some  trivial  precau- 
tion. He  should  have  burned  the  towel  with  the 
moccasins;  but  he  don't.  This  towel  will  help 
to  strangle  him." 

"You're  becoming  a  bloodthirsty  detective," 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    271 

mused  Winter  aloud.  "I've  seldom  seen  you  so 
vindictive.  Why  is  it  ?  " 

"I  dislike  snakes,  and  this  fellow  is  a  poison- 
ous specimen.  If  there  were  no  snakes  in  the 
world,  we  should  all  be  so  happy ! ' ' 

"Blessed  if  I  see  that." 

"I  have  always  suspected  that  your  religious 
education  had  been  neglected.  Eead  the  Bible 
and  Milton.  Then  you'll  understand;  and  in- 
cidentally speak  and  write  better  English. ' ' 

"Can  you  suggest  any  means  whereby  I  can 
grasp  your  jokes  without  being  bored  to  weari- 
ness? They're  more  soporific  than  bromide. 
Anyhow,  it's  time  we  undressed." 

Though  the  blind  was  drawn  the  window  was 
open;  there  was  no  knowing  who  might  be 
watching  from  the  garden,  so  they  went  through 
all  the  motions  of  undressing  and  placed  their 
boots  outside  the  door. 

Then  the  light  was  switched  off,  the  blind 
raised,  and  they  dressed  again  rapidly,  don- 
ning other  boots.  Each  pocketed  an  automatic 
pistol  and  an  electric  torch  and,  by  preconcerted 
plan,  Winter  sat  by  the  window  and  Furneaux 
by  the  door.  It  was  then  a  quarter  to  eleven, 
and  they  hardly  looked  for  any  developments 
until  a  much  later  hour,  but  they  neglected  no 
precaution.  Unquestionably  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult for  any  one  to  move  about  in  that  part  of 
the  house,  or  cross  the  gardens  without  attract- 
ing their  attention. 


272  MORTIMER  FENLET 

Their  room  was  situated  on  the  south  front, 
two  doors  from  Sylvia's,  and  two  from  Hilton 
Fenley's  bedroom.  The  door  lay  in  shadow 
beyond  the  range  of  the  light  burning  in  the 
hall.  Sylvia's  room  was  farther  along  the  cor- 
ridor. The  door  of  Hilton's  bedroom  occupied 
the  same  plane;  the  door  of  his  sitting-room 
faced  the  end  of  the  corridor. 

The  walls  were  massive,  as  in  all  Tudor 
houses,  and  the  doors  so  deeply  recessed  that 
there  was  space  for  a  small  mat  in  front  of  each. 
Ordinarily  boots  placed  there  were  not  visible 
in  the  line  of  the  corridor,  but  the  detectives' 
footgear  stood  well  in  view.  There  were  two 
reasons  for  this.  In  the  first  place,  Hilton  Fen- 
ley  might  like  to  see  them,  so  his  highly  prob- 
able if  modest  desire  was  gratified;  secondly, 
when  Parker  visited  Sylvia  and  quitted  her, 
and  when  Sylvia  went  downstairs,  Furneaux's 
head,  lying  between  two  pairs  of  boots,  could 
scarcely  be  distinguished,  while  his  scope  of  vis- 
ion was  only  slightly,  if  at  all,  diminished. 

Soon  the  girl's  footsteps  could  be  heard  cross- 
ing the  hall,  and  the  raising  of  the  drawing- 
room  window  and  opening  of  the  shutters  were 
clearly  audible.  Winter,  whose  office  had  been 
a  sinecure  hitherto,  now  came  into  the  scheme. 

He  saw  Sylvia's  slight  form  standing  be- 
neath, marked  her  hesitancy,  and  watched  her 
slow  progress  down  the  terraces  and  into  the 
park.  This  nocturnal  enterprise  on  her  part 


TEE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    2?a 

was  rather  perplexing,  and  he  was  in  two  minds 
whether  or  not  to  cross  the  room  and  consult 
with  Furneaux,  when  the  latter  suddenly  with- 
drew his  head,  closed  the  door,  and  hissed 
"Snore!" 

Winter  crept  to  a  bed,  and  put  up  an  artistic 
performance,  a  duet,  musical,  regular,  not  too 
loud.  In  a  little  while  his  colleague's  "S-s-t!" 
stopped  him,  and  a  slight  crack  of  a  finger 
against  a  thumb  called  him  to  the  door,  which 
was  open  again. 

Explanation  was  needless.  Hilton  Fenley, 
like  the  other  watchers,  hearing  the  creaking  of 
window  and  shutters,  had  looked  out  from  his 
own  darkened  room.  In  all  likelihood,  thank- 
ing his  stars  for  the  happy  chance  given  thus 
unexpectedly,  he  noted  the  direction  the  girl 
was  taking,  and  acted  as  if  prepared  for  this 
very  development;  the  truth  being,  of  course, 
that  he  was  merely  adapting  his  own  plans  to 
immediate  and  more  favorable  conditions. 

Coming  out  into  the  corridor,  he  consulted  his 
watch.  Then  he  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the 
room  which  held  the  two  men  he  had  cause  to 
fear — such  ample  cause  as  he  little  dreamed  of 
at  that  moment.  To  make  assurance  doubly 
sure,  he  walked  that  way,  not  secretly,  but 
boldly,  since  it  was  part  of  his  project  now  to 
court  observation — by  others,  at  any  rate,  if 
not  by  the  drugged  emissaries  of  Scotland 
Yard.  He  waited  outside  the  closed  door  and 


274  MORTIMER  FENLET 

heard  what  he  expected  to  hear,  the  snoring  of 
two  men  sound  asleep. 

Eeturning,  he  did  not  reenter  his  own  room, 
but  crossed  the  head  of  the  staircase  to  Rob- 
ert's. He  knocked  lightly,  and  his  brother's 
"Hello,  there!  Come  in!"  reached  Furneaux's 
ears.  Not  a  word  of  the  remainder  of  the  col- 
loquy that  ensued  was  lost  on  either  of  the 
detectives. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Bob,"  said  Hilton, 
speaking  from  the  doorway,  "but  I  thought  you 
might  not  be  in  bed,  and  I've  come  to  tell  you 
that  Sylvia  has  just  gone  out  by  way  of  the 
drawing-room  and  is  wandering  about  the 
park." 

"Sylvia!  On  her  lonesome!"  was  Robert's 
astounded  cry. 

"Yes.  It  isn't  right.  I  can't  understand  her 
behavior.  I  would  have  followed  her  myself; 
but  in  view  of  your  statement  at  dinner  tonight, 
I  fancied  it  would  save  some  annoyance  if  I 
entrusted  that  duty  to  you." 

"Look  here,  Hilton,  old  chap,  are  you  really 
in  earnest?" 

"About  Sylvia?  Yes.  I  actually  saw  her. 
At  this  moment  she  is  heading  for  the  lake. 
If  you  hurry  you'll  see  her  yourself." 

"I  say,  it's  awfully  decent  of  you.    .    .  I 
take  back  a  lot  of  what  I  said  tonight.  .   .   . 
Of  course,  as  matters  stand,  this  is  my  job. 
.  Tell  MacBain  not  to  lock  us  out." 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    275 

"111  attend  fo  that,  if  necessary.  But  don't 
mention  me  to  Sylvia.  She  might  resent  the 
notion  of  being  spied  on.  Say  that  you,  too, 
were  strolling  about.  You  see,  I  heard  the  win- 
dow being  opened,  and  looked  out,  naturally. 
Anyhow,  drop  me,  and  run  this  affair  on  your 
own." 

Robert  was  slightly  obfuscated — the  fresh  air 
quickly  made  him  worse — but  he  was  sensible  of 
having  grossly  misjudged  Hilton. 

"Right-0,"  he  said,  hurrying  downstairs. 
"We'll  have  a  talk  in  the  mornin'.  Dash  it! 
It 's  twelve  o  'clock.  That  silly  kid !  What 's  she 
after,  I'd  like  to  know!" 

Robert  gone,  Hilton  returned  to  his  own  room 
and  rang  a  bell.  MacBain  came,  and  was  asked 
if  he  was  aware  that  Miss  Sylvia  had  quitted  the 
house.  MacBain  gave  his  version  of  the  story, 
and  Fenley  remarked  that  he  might  leave  the 
window  unfastened  until  he  made  his  rounds  at 
one  o  'clock. 

Seemingly  as  an  afterthought,  Hilton  men- 
tioned his  brother's  open  door,  and  MacBain 
discovered  that  Mr.  Robert  was  missing  also. 

By  that  time  the  detectives,  without  exchang- 
ing a  word,  had  each  arrived  at  the  same  opin- 
ion as  to  the  trend  of  events.  Hilton  Fenley 
was  remodeling  his  projects  to  suit  an  unfore- 
seen development.  No  matter  what  motive  in- 
spired Sylvia  Manning's  midnight  ramble,  there 
eould  be  no  disputing  the  influence  which  domi- 


276  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

nated  Eobert  Fenley.  He  was  his  brother's 
catspaw.  When  his  rifle  was  found  next  day 
MacBain's  testimony  would  be  a  tremendous 
addition  to  the  weight  of  evidence  against  him, 
since  any  unprejudiced  judgment  must  decide 
that  the  pursuit  of  his  ''cousin"  was  a  mere 
pretense  to  enable  him  to  go  out  and  search  for 
the  weapon  he  had  foolishly  left  in  the  wood. 

Hilton  might  or  might  not  admit  that  he  told 
Eobert  of  the  girl's  escapade.  If  he  did  admit 
it,  he  might  be  trusted  to  give  the  incident  the 
requisite  kink  to  turn  the  scale  against  Eobert. 
Surveying  the  facts  with  cold  impartiality 
afterwards,  Scotland  Yard  decided  that  while 
Hilton  could  not  hope  that  Eobert  would  be 
convicted  of  the  murder,  the  latter  would  as- 
suredly be  suspected  of  it,  perhaps  arrested  and 
tried ;  and  in  any  event  his  marriage  with  Sylvia 
Manning  would  become  a  sheer  impossibility. 

Moreover,  once  the  rifle  was  found  by  the 
police,  the  only  reasonable  prospect  of  connect- 
ing Hilton  himself  with  the  crime  would  have 
vanished  into  thin  air.  If  that  weapon  were 
picked  up  in  the  Quarry  Wood,  or  for  that  mat- 
ter in  any  other  part  of  the  estate,  the  hounds 
of  the  law  were  beaten.  Winter 's  level-headed 
shrewdness  and  Furneaux's  almost  uncanny 
intuition  might  have  saddled  Hilton  with  blood 
guiltiness,  but  a  wide  chasm  must  be  bridged 
before  they  could  provide  the  requisite  proof  of 
their  theory. 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    277 

In  fact,  thus  far  they  dared  not  even  hint  at 
bringing  a  charge  against  him.  To  succeed, 
they  had  to  show  that  the  incredible  was  cred- 
ible, that  a  murderer  could  be  in  a  room  within 
a  few  feet  of  his  victim  and  in  a  wood  distant 
fully  four  hundred  yards.  It  was  a  baffling 
problem,  not  wholly  incapable  of  solution  by  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  but  best  left  to  be  eluci- 
dated by  Hilton  Fenley  himself.  They  believed 
now  that  he  was  about  to  oblige  them  by  supply- 
ing that  corroborative  detail  which,  in  the 
words  of  Poohbah,  "lends  artistic  verisimilitude 
to  an  otherwise  bald  and  unconvincing  nar- 
rative. ' ' 

Winter  drew  Furneaux  into  the  room,  and 
breathed  the  words  into  his  ear: 

"You  go.  You  stand  less  chance  of  being 
seen.  IT  search  his  room." 

"If  there  is  a  misfire,  show  a  signal  after 
five  minutes." 

"Right!" 

Furneaux,  standing  back  from  the  window, 
but  in  such  a  position  that  a  light  would  be 
visible  to  any  one  perched  on  the  rock  in  the 
wood,  pressed  the  button  of  an  electric  torch 
three  times  rapidly.  Then  he  lowered  the  rope 
ladder  and  clambered  down  with  the  nimbleness 
of  a  sailor.  In  all  probability,  Hilton  Fenley 
was  still  talking  to  MacBain  and  creating  the 
illusion  that  the  last  thing  he  would  think  of 
was  a  stroll  out  of  doors  at  that  late  hour.  But 


278  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

the  little  man  took  no  chances.  Having  sur- 
veyed the  ground  carefully  during  the  day,  he 
was  not  bothered  now  by  doubts  as  to  the  most 
practicable  path. 

Creeping  close  to  the  house  till  he  reached  the 
yew  hedge,  and  then  passing  through  an  arch, 
he  remained  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  till  it 
turned  at  a  right  angle  in  front  of  the  Italian 
garden.  From  that  point  to  the  edge  of  the 
Quarry  Wood  was  not  a  stone's  throw,  and 
clumps  of  rhododendrons  and  other  flowering 
shrubs  gave  shelter  in  plenty.  Arrived  at  the 
mouth  of  the  footpath,  which  he  had  marked  by 
counting  the  trees  in  the  avenue,  he  halted  and 
listened  intently.  There  was  no  sound  of  rus- 
tling grass  or  crunched  gravel.  Hilton  was  tak- 
ing matters  leisurely.  Fifteen  minutes  would 
give  him  ample  time  for  the  business  he  had  in 
hand.  Even  if  Eobert  and  Sylvia  reached  home 
before  him,  which  was  unlikely — far  more  un- 
likely even  than  he  imagined — he  could  say 
that  he  thought  it  advisable  to  follow  his 
brother  and  help  in  the  search  for  the  girl. 
The  same  excuse  would  serve  if  he  met  any  of 
those  pestilential  police  prowling  about  the 
grounds.  Indeed,  he  could  dispatch  the  alert 
and  intelligent  ones  on  the  trail  of  the  wander- 
ers, especially  on  Robert's.  In  a  word,  matters 
were  going  well  for  Hilton,  so  well  that  Fur- 
neaux  laughed  as  he  turned  into  the  wood. 

Here  the  detective  had  to  advance  with  care. 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    279 

Beneath  the  trees  the  darkness  was  now  so  com- 
plete that  it  had  that  peculiar  quality  of  density 
which  every-day  speech  likens  to  a  wall.  Cats, 
gamekeepers,  poachers,  and  other  creatures  of 
predatory  and  nocturnal  habits  can  find  and 
follow  a  definite  track  under  such  conditions; 
but  detectives  are  nearly  human,  and  Furneaux 
was  compelled  to  use  the  torch  more  than  once. 
He  ran  no  risk  in  doing  this.  Hilton  Fenley 
could  not  yet  be  in  a  position  to  catch  the  gleam 
of  light  among  the  trees.  The  one  thing  to 
avoid  was  delay,  and  Furneaux  had  gained 
rather  than  lost  time,  unless  Fenley  was  run- 
ning at  top  speed. 

After  crossing  the  damp  hollow  the  Jersey- 
man  had  no  further  difficulty;  he  breasted  the 
hill  and  kept  a  hand  extended  so  as  to  avoid 
colliding  with  a  tree  trunk.  Expecting  at  any 
instant  to  have  a  bull's-eye  lantern  flashed  in 
his  eyes,  which  he  did  not  want  to  happen,  he 
said  softly : 

"Hi!  You  two!  Don't  show  a  light!  How 
near  are  you?" 

"Oh,  it's  you,  sir!"  said  a  voice.  "We 
thought  it  would  be.  We  saw  the  signal,  and 
you  said  you  might  be  the  first  to  arrive." 

"Any  second  signal?" 

"No,  sir." 

Furneaux  recognized  the  pungent  scent  of  the 
colza  oil  used  in  policemen's  lamps. 

"By  gad,"  he  said,  "if  the  average  criminal 


280  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

had  the  nose  of  the  veriest  cur  dog  he'd  smell 
that  oil  a  mile  away.  Now,  where  are  you? 
There. "  He  had  butted  into  a  constable's  solid 
bulk.  "Take  me  to  the  rock — quick.  We  must 
hide  behind  it,  on  the  lower  side.  ...  Is  this 
the  place?  Eight!  Squat  down,  both  of  you, 
and  make  yourselves  comfortable,  so  that  you 
won't  feel  your  position  irksome,  and  move  per- 
haps at  the  wrong  moment.  When  you  feel  me 
crawling  away,  follow  to  the  upper  foot  of  the 
rock — no  farther. 

"Stand  upright  then,  and  try  to  keep  your 
joints  from  cracking.  There  must  be  no  creak- 
ing of  belts  or  boots.  Absolute  silence  is  the 
order.  Not  a  word  spoken.  No  matter  what 
you  hear,  don't  move  again  until  you  see  the 
light  of  my  electric  torch.  Then  run  to  me, 
turning  on  your  own  lamps,  and  help  in  arrest- 
ing any  one  I  may  be  holding.  Use  your  hand- 
cuffs if  necessary,  and  don't  hesitate  to  grab 
hard  if  there  is  a  struggle.  Eemember,  you 
are  to  arrest  any  one,  no  matter  who  it  may  be. 
Got  that?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  two  eager  voices. 

"Don't  be  excited.  It  will  be  an  easy  thing. 
If  we  make  a  mistake,  I  bear  the  responsibility. 
Now,  keep  still  as  mice  when  they  hear  a  cat." 

One  of  the  men  giggled.  Both  constables  had 
met  Furneaux  in  the  local  police  station  that 
afternoon,  as  he  had  asked  the  Inspector  to 
parade  the  pair  who  would  be  on  duty  during 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    281 

the  night.  It  was  then  that  he  had  arranged 
a  simple  code  of  flash  signals,  and  warned  them 
to  look  out  for  Winter  or  himself  during  the 
night.  Any  other  person  who  turned  up  was 
not  to  be  challenged  until  he  reached  the  higher 
ground  beyond  the  rock,  but  that  instruction 
was  to  be  acted  on  only  in  the  unavoidable  ab- 
sence of  one  of  the  Scotland  Yard  officers. 
Privately,  the  constables  hoped  Furneaux  would 
be  their  leader.  They  deemed  him  "a  funny 
little  josser,"  and  marveled  greatly  at  his  man- 
ner and  appearance.  Still,  they  had  heard  of 
his  reputation;  the  Inspector,  in  an  expansive 
moment,  had  observed  that  "Monkey  Face  was 
sharper  than  he  looked. ' ' 

Thinking  example  better  than  precept,  Fur- 
neaux did  not  reprove  the  giggler.  Lying  there, 
screened  even  in  broad  daylight  by  the  bulk  of 
the  rock  and  some  hazels  growing  vigorously 
in  that  restricted  area  owing  to  the  absence  of 
foliage  overhead,  he  listened  to  the  voices  of  the 
night,  never  dumb  in  a  large  wood.  Birds  flut- 
tered uneasily  on  the  upper  branches  of  the 
trees — indeed,  Furneaux  was  lucky  in  that  the 
occasional  gleam  of  the  torch  had  not  sent  a 
pheasant  hurtling  off  with  frantic  clamor  ere 
ever  the  rendezvous  was  reached — and  some 
winged  creature,  probably  an  owl,  swept  over 
the  rock  in  stealthy  flight.  The  rabbits  were 
all  out  in  the  open,  nibbling  grass  and  crops 
at  leisure,  but  there  were  other  tiny  forms  rus- 


282  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

tling  among  the  shrubs  and  scampering  across 
the  soft  carpet  of  fallen  leaves. 

Twitterings,  and  subdued  squeaks,  and  sud- 
den rushes  of  pattering  feet,  the  murmuring  of 
myriad  fronds  in  the  placid  breeze,  the  whisper- 
ing of  the  neighboring  elms,  even  the  steady 
chant  of  the  distant  cascade — all  swelled  into 
a  soft  and  continuous  chorus,  hardly  heard  by 
the  country  policemen,  accustomed  as  they  were 
to  the  sounds  of  a  woodland  at  night,  but  of 
surprising  volume  and  variety  to  the  man  whose 
forests  lay  in  the  paved  wilderness  of  Lon- 
don. 

Suddenly  a  twig  cracked  sharply  and  a  match 
was  struck.  It  was  of  the  safety  type  and  made 
little  noise,  but  it  was  too  much  for  the  nerves 
of  a  bird,  which  flew  away  noisily.  Furneaux 
pursed  his  lips  and  wanted  to  whistle.  He 
realized  now  what  an  escape  he  had  earlier. 
But  the  intruder  seemed  to  care  less  about  at- 
tracting attention  than  making  rapid  progress. 
He  came  on  swiftly,  striking  other  matches 
when  required,  until  he  stood  on  the  bare 
ground  near  the  rock.  Not  daring  to  lift  a  head, 
none  of  the  three  watchers  could  see  the  new- 
comer, and  in  that  respect  their  hiding-place 
was  almost  too  well  chosen.  Whoever  it  was, 
he  needed  no  more  matches  to  guide  his  foot- 
steps. They  heard  him  advancing  a  few  paces ; 
then  he  halted  again.  After  a  marked  interval, 
punctuated  by  a  soft,  whirring  noise  hard  to 


THE  SPREADING  OF  THE  NET    283 

interpret,  there  were  irregular  scrapings  and 
the  creaking  of  a  branch. 

Furneaux  arose.  Keeping  a  hand  on  the  rock 
until  he  was  clear  of  the  shrubs,  he  crept  for- 
ward on  thievish  feet.  His  assistants,  moving 
more  clumsily  to  their  allotted  station,  were 
audible  enough  to  him,  but  to  a  man  unconscious 
of  their  presence,  and  actively  climbing  a  tree, 
they  were  remote  and  still  as  Uranus  and 
Saturn. 

The  scraping  of  feet  and  heavy  breathing,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  prompt  flight  of  several 
birds,  led  the  detective  unerringly  to  the  trunk 
of  a  lofty  chestnut  which  he  had  already  fixed 
on  as  the  cover  whence  the  shot  that  killed 
Mortimer  Fenley  was  fired.  He  was  convinced 
also  that  the  rifle  was  yet  hidden  there,  and 
his  thin  lips  parted  in  a  smile  now  that  his 
theory  was  about  to  be  justified. 

He  could  follow  the  panting  efforts  of  the 
climber  quite  easily.  He  knew  when  the  weapon 
was  unlashed  from  the  limb  to  which  it  was 
bound,  and  when  the  descent  was  begun.  He 
could  measure  almost  the  exact  distance  of  his 
prey  from  the  ground,  and  was  awaiting  the 
final  drop  before  flashing  the  torch  on  his  pris' 
oner,  when  something  rapped  him  smartly  on 
the  forehead.  It  was  a  rope,  doubled  and 
twisted,  and  subsequent  investigation  showed 
that  it  must  have  been  thrown  in  a  coil  over 
the  lowermost  branch  in  order  to  facilitate  the 


284  MORTIMER  FENLEX 

only  difficult  part  of  the  climb  offered  by  ten 
feet  of  straight  bole. 

That  trivial  incident  changed  the  whole 
course  of  events.  Taken  by  surprise,  since  he 
did  not  know  what  had  struck  him,  Furneaux 
pressed  the  governor  of  the  torch  a  second  too 
soon,  and  his  eyes,  raised  instantaneously,  met 
those  of  Hilton  Fenley,  who  was  on  the  point 
of  letting  go  the  branch  and  swinging  himself 
down. 

During  a  thrilling  moment  they  gazed  at  each 
other,  the  detective  cool  and  seemingly  uncon- 
cerned, the  self-avowed  murderer  livid  with 
mortal  fear.  Then  Furneaux  caught  the  rope 
and  held  it. 

"I  thought  you'd  go  climbing  tonight,  Fen- 
ley,"  he  said.  "Let  me  assist  you.  Tricky 
things,  ropes.  You're  at  the  wrong  end  of 
this  one." 

Even  Homer  nods,  but  Furneaux  had  erred 
three  times  in  as  many  seconds.  He  had 
switched  on  the  light  prematurely,  and  his 
ready  banter  had  warned  the  parricide  that  a 
well-built  scheme  was  crumbling  to  irretrievable 
ruin.  Moreover,  he  had  underrated  the  nervous 
forces  of  the  man  thus  trapped  and  outwitted. 
Fenley  knew  that  when  his  feet  touched  the 
earth  he  would  begin  a  ghastly  pilgrimage  to  the 
scaffold.  Two  yellow  orbs  of  light  were  already 
springing  up  the  slight  incline  from  the  rock, 
betokening  the  presence  of  captors  in  over- 


TEE  SPREADING  OF  TEE  NET    285 

whelming  number.  What  was  to  be  done? 
Nothing,  in  reason,  yet  Furneaux  had  likened 
him  to  a  snake,  and  he  displayed  now  the  primal 
instinct  of  the  snake  to  fight  when  cornered. 
Thrusting  the  heavy  gun  he  was  carrying 
straight  downward,  he  delivered  a  vicious  and 
unerring  blow. 

The  stock  caught  the  detective  on  the  crown 
of  the  head,  and  he  fell  to  his  knees,  dropping 
the  torch,  which  of  course  went  out  as  soon  as 
the  thumb  relaxed  its  pressure. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS 

FENLEY  himself  dropped  almost  simultane- 
ously with  the  rifle,  landing  with  both  feet  on 
Furneaux's  back,  and  thus  completing  the  little 
man's  discomfiture.  By  that  time  the  two 
policemen  were  nearly  upon  him,  but  he  was 
lithe  and  fierce  as  a  cobra,  and  had  seized  the 
rifle  again  before  they  could  close  with  him. 
Jabbing  the  nearer  adversary  with  the  muzzle, 
he  smashed  a  lamp  and  sent  its  owner  sprawl- 
ing backward.  Then,  swinging  the  weapon,  he 
aimed  a  murderous  blow  at  the  second  con- 
stable. 

The  man  contrived  to  avoid  it  to  a  certain 
extent,  but  it  glanced  off  his  left  arm  and 
caught  the  side  of  his  head;  and  he,  too,  meas- 
ured his  length.  All  three,  detective  and  police, 
were  on  their  feet  promptly,  for  none  was  seri- 
ously injured ;  but  Furneaux  was  dazed  and  had 
to  grope  for  the  torch,  and  the  second  con- 
stable's lamp  had  gone  out  owing  to  a  rush  of 
oil  from  the  cistern.  Thus,  during  some  pre- 
cious seconds,  they  were  in  total  darkness. 

Meanwhile  Fenley  had  escaped.  Luck,  after 
deserting  him,  had  come  to  his  rescue  in  the  nick 

286 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  287 

of  time.  He  had  blundered  into  the  path,  and 
managed  to  keep  to  it,  and  the  somewhat  strong 
language  in  which  Furneaux  expressed  his  feel- 
ings anent  the  Hertfordshire  Constabulary,  and 
the  no  less  lurid  comments  of  two  angry  mem- 
bers of  the  force,  helped  to  conceal  the  sounds 
which  would  otherwise  have  indicated  the  direc- 
tion taken  by  the  fugitive. 

At  last,  having  found  the  torch,  Furneaux 
collected  his  scattered  wits. 

"Now  don't  be  scared  and  run  away,  you 
two,"  he  said  sarcastically,  producing  an  auto- 
matic pistol.  "I'm  only  going  to  tell  Mr.  Win- 
ter that  we've  bungled  the  job." 

He  fired  twice  in  the  air,  and  two  vivid  spurts 
of  flame  rose  high  among  the  branches  of  the 
chestnut;  but  the  loud  reports  of  the  shooting 
were  as  nothing  compared  with  the  din  that  fol- 
lowed. Every  rook  within  a  mile  flew  from  its 
eyrie  and  cawed  strenuously.  Pheasants 
clucked  and  clattered  in  all  directions,  owls 
hooted,  and  dogs  barked  in  the  kennels,  in  the 
stable  yard,  and  in  nearly  every  house  of  the 
two  neighboring  villages. 

"I  don't  see  what  good  that'll  do,  sir,"  was 
the  rueful  comment  of  the  policeman  who  had,  in 
his  own  phrase,  "collected  a  thick  ear,"  and 
was  now  feeling  the  spot  tenderly.  "He  hasn't 
shinned  up  the  tree  again;  that's  a  positive  cer- 
tainty." 

"I  should  have  thought  that  a  really  clever 


288  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

fellow  like  you  would  guess  that  I  wanted  to 
raise  a  row,''  said  Furneaux.  "Have  you 
breath  enough  left  to  blow  your  whistles?" 

"But,  sir,  your  orders  were " 

"Blow,  and  be  damned  to  you.  Don't  I  know 
the  fault  is  mine !  Blow,  and  crack  your  cheeks ! 
Blow  wild  peals,  my  Roberts,  else  we  are  copped 
coppers ! ' ' 

The  mild  radiance  of  the  torch  showed  that 
the  detective's  face  was  white  with  fury  and 
his  eyes  gleaming  red.  To  think  that  a  dangling 
rope's  end  should  have  spoiled  his  finest  cap- 
ture, undone  a  flawless  piece  of  imaginative 
reasoning  which  his  own  full  record  had  never 
before  equaled!  It  was  humiliating,  madden- 
ing. No  wonder  the  policemen  thought  him 
crazy ! 

But  they  whistled  with  a  will.  Winter 
heard  them,  and  was  stirred  to  strange  activ- 
ities. Robert  Fenley,  recovering  from  an  ague 
and  sickness,  heard  and  marveled  at  the  pan- 
demonium which  had  broken  loose  in  the  park. 
The  household  at  The  Towers  was  aroused, 
heads  were  craned  out  of  windows,  women 
screamed,  and  men  dressed  hastily.  Keepers, 
estate  hands,  and  stablemen  tumbled  into  their 
garments  and  hurried  out,  armed  with  guns  and 
cudgels.  An  unhappy  woman,  tossing  in  the 
fitful  dreams  of  drug-induced  sleep,  was  awak- 
ened by  the  pistol  shots  and  terrified  by  the 
noise  of  slamming  doors  and  hurrying  feet. 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  289 

She  struggled  out  of  bed  and  screamed  for  an 
attendant,  but  none  came.  She  pressed  an 
electric  bell,  which  rang  continuously  in  the 
night  watchman's  room;  but  he  had  run  to  the 
front  of  the  house  and  was  unlocking  the  front 
door,  where  a  squad  of  willing  men  soon  awaited 
Winter's  instructions.  For  the  Superintendent, 
after  rushing  to  the  telephone,  had  shouted  an 
order  to  MacBain  before  he  made  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  Quarry  Wood. 

The  one  tocsin  which  exercises  a  dread  sig- 
nificance in  a  peaceful  and  law-abiding  English 
community  at  the  present  day  struck  a  new  and 
awful  note  in  Hilton  Fenley's  brain.  Fool  that 
he  was,  why  had  he  fought?  Why  was  he  fly- 
ing? Had  he  brazened  it  out,  the  police  would 
not  have  dared  arrest  him.  His  brain  was  as 
acute  as  the  best  of  theirs.  He  could  have 
evolved  a  theory  of  the  crime  as  subtle  as  any 
detective's,  and  who  so  keen-witted  as  a  son 
eager  to  avenge  a  father's  murder?  But  he 
had  thrown  away  a  gambler's  chance  by  a  mo- 
ment of  frenzied  struggle.  He  was  doomed 
now.  No  plausible  explanation  would  serve 
his  need.  He  was  hunted.  The  pack  was  after 
him.  The  fox  had  broken  cover,  and  the 
hounds  were  in  full  cry. 

Whither  should  he  go?  He  knew  not.  Still 
clutching  the  empty  gun — for  which  he  had  not 
even  one  cartridge  in  his  pockets — he  made 
hopelessly  for  the  open  park.  Already  some 


290  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

glimmer  of  light  showed  that  he  was  winning 
free  of  these  accursed  trees,  which  had  stretched 
forth  a  thousand  hands  to  tear  his  flesh  and 
trip  his  uncertain  feet.  That  way,  at  least,  lay 
the  world.  In  the  wood  he  might  have  circled 
blindly  until  captured. 

Now  a  drawback  of  such  roaring  maelstroms 
of  alarm  and  uncertainty  is  their  knack  of  sub- 
merging earlier  and  less  dramatic  passages  in 
the  lives  of  those  whom  Fate  drags  into  their 
sweeping  currents.  Lest,  therefore,  the 
strangely  contrived  meeting  between  Sylvia  and 
her  knight  errant  should  be  neglected  by  the 
chronicler,  it  is  well  to  return  to  those  two 
young  people  at  the  moment  when  Sylvia  was 
declaring  her  unimpaired  power  of  standing 
without  support. 

Trenholme  was  disposed  to  take  everything 
for  the  best  in  a  magic  world.  "  Whatever  is, 
is  right"  is  a  doctrine  which  appeals  to  the 
artistic  temperament,  inasmuch  as  it  blends 
fatalism  and  the  action  of  Providence  in  pro- 
portions so  admirably  adjusted  that  no  philoso- 
pher yet  born  has  succeeded  in  reducing  them 
to  a  formula.  But  Eve  did  not  bite  the  apple  in 
that  spirit.  It  was  forbidden:  she  wanted  to 
know  why.  Sylvia's  first  thought  was  to  dis- 
cover a  reasonable  reason  for  Trenholme 's 
presence.  Of  course,  there  was  one  that  jumped 
to  the  eye,  but  it  was  too  absurd  to  suppose  that 
he  had  come  to  the  tryst  in  obedience  to  the 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  291 

foolish  vagaries  which  accounted  for  her  own 
actions.  She  blushed  to  the  nape  of  her  neck 
at  the  conceit,  which  called  for  instant  and 
severe  repression,  and  her  voice  reflected  the 
passing  mood. 

"I  don't  wish  to  underrate  the  great  service 
you  have  rendered  me,"  she  said  coldly,  "and 
I  shall  always  be  your  debtor  for  it;  but  I  can 
not  help  asking  how  you  came  to  be  standing 
under  the  cedars  at  this  hour  of  the 
night?" 

* '  I  wonder, ' '  he  said. 

She  wriggled  her  shoulder  slightly,  as  a  polite 
intimation  that  his  hand  need  not  rest  there  any 
longer,  but  he  seemed  to  misinterpret  the  move- 
ment, and  drew  her  an  inch  or  so  nearer,  where- 
upon the  wriggling  ceased. 

"But  that  is  no  answer  at  all,"  she  mur- 
mured, aware  of  a  species  of  fear  of  this  big, 
masterful  man :  a  fear  rather  fascinating  in  its 
tremors,  like  a  novice's  cringing  to  the  vibra- 
tion of  electricity  in  a  mildly  pleasant  form; 
a  fear  as  opposed  to  her  loathing  of  Robert  Fen- 
ley  as  the  song  of  a  thrush  to  the  purr  of  a 
tiger. 

"I  can  tell  you,  in  a  disconnected  sort  of 
way,"  he  said,  evidently  trying  to  focus  his 
thoughts  on  a  problem  set  by  the  gods,  and 
which,  in  consequence,  was  incapable  of  logical 
solution  by  a  mere  mortal.  ' '  It  was  a  fine  night. 
I  felt  restless.  The  four  walls  of  a  room  were 


292  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

prison-like.  I  strolled  out.  I  was  thinking 
of  you.  I  am  here. ' ' 

She  trembled  a  little.  Blushing  even  more 
deeply  than  before,  she  fancied  he  must  be  able 
to  feel  her  skin  hot  through  silk  and  linen.  For 
all  that,  she  contrived  to  laugh. 

"It  sounds  convincing,  but  there  is  something 
missing  in  the  argument,"  she  said. 

"Most  likely,"  he  admitted.  "A  woman 
analyzes  emotion  far  more  intimately  than  a 
man.  Perhaps,  if  you  were  to  tell  me  why  you 
were  drawn  to  cross  the  park  at  midnight,  you 
might  supply  a  clue  to  my  own  moon  madness." 

"But  there  isn't  any  moon,  and  I  think  I 
ought  to  be  returning  to  the  house." 

He  knew  quite  well  that  she  had  evaded  his 
question,  and,  so  readily  does  the  heart  respond 
to  the  whisperings  of  hope,  he  was  aware  of  a 
sudden  tumult  in  that  which  doctors  call  the 
cardiac  region.  She,  too,  had  come  forth  to  tell 
her  longings  to  the  stars !  That  thrice  blessed 
picture  had  drawn  them  together  by  a  force  as 
unseen  and  irresistible  as  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion! Then  he  became  aware  of  a  dreadful 
qualm.  Had  he  any  right  to  place  on  her  slim 
shoulders  the  weight  of  an  avowal  from  which 
he  had  flinched?  He  dropped  that  protecting 
hand  as  if  it  had  been  struck  sharply. 

"I  have  annoyed  you  by  my  stupid  word- 
fencing,"  he  said  contritely. 

"No,  indeed,"  she  said,  and,  reveling  in  a 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  293 

new  sense  of  power,  her  tone  grew  very  gentle. 
"Why  should  we  seek  far-fetched  theories  for 
so  simple  a  thing  as  a  stroll  out  of  doors  on  a 
night  like  this  ?  I  am  not  surprised  that  you,  at 
any  rate,  should  wish  to  visit  the  place  where 
that  delightful  picture  sprang  into  being.  Tt 
was  my  exceeding  good  fortune  that  you  hap- 
pened to  be  close  at  hand  when  I  needed  help. 
I  must  explain  that " 

"My  explanation  comes  first,"  he  broke  in. 
"I  saw  you  crossing  the  park.  A  second  time  in 
the  course  of  one  day  I  had  to  decide  whether 
to  remain  hidden  or  make  a  bolt  for  it.  Again 
I  determined  to  stand  fast;  for  had  you  seen 
and  heard  a  man  vanishing  among  the  trees 
you  would  certainly  have  been  alarmed,  not  only 
because  of  the  hour  but  owing  to  today's  ex- 
traordinary events.  Moreover,  I  felt  sure  you 
were  coming  to  the  lake,  and  I  did  not  wish  to 
stop  you.  That  was  a  bit  of  pure  selfishness 
on  my  part.  I  wanted  you  to  come.  If  ever  a 
man  was  vouchsafed  the  realization  of  an  un- 
spoken prayer,  I  am  that  man  tonight." 

Trenholme  had  never  before  made  love  to  any 
woman,  but  lack  of  experience  did  not  seem  to 
trouble  him  greatly.  Sylvia,  however,  though 
very  much  alive  to  that  element  in  his  words,  be- 
thought herself  of  something  else  which  they 
implied. 

"Then  you  heard  what  my  cousin  Robert 
said?"  she  commented. 


294  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"Every  syllable.  When  the  chance  of  an 
effectual  reply  offered,  I  recalled  his  disjointed 
remarks  collectively. ' ' 

1  'Did  you  hit  him  very  hard?" 

"Just  hard  enough  to  stop  him  from  annoy- 
ing you  further  tonight." 

"I  suppose  he  deserved  it.  He  was  horrid. 
But  I  don't  wish  you  to  meet  him  again  just 
now.  He  is  no  coward,  and  he  might  attack 
you." 

"That  would  be  most  unfortunate,"  he 
agreed. 

"So,  if  you  don't  mind,  we'll  take  a  round- 
about way.  By  skirting  the  Quarry  Wood  we 
can  reach  the  avenue,  near  the  place  where  we 
met  this  evening.  Do  you  remember1?" 

"Perfectly.  I  shall  be  very  old  before  I  for- 
get." 

"But  I  mean  the  place  where  we  met.  Of 
course,  you  could  hardly  pretend  that  you  had 
forgotten  meeting  me." 

"As  soon  would  the  daffodil  forget  where 
last  it  bloomed. 

"  Daffodils, 

That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 

The  winds  of  March  with  beauty. 

"Not  that  I  should  quote  you  *A  Winter's 
Tale/  but  rather  search  my  poor  store  for 
apter  lines  from  'A  Midsummer  Night's 
Bream ': 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  295 

"  I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luxurious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk  roses,  and  with  eglantine: 
There  sleeps  Titania. 

"  Believe  me,  I  have  an  excellent  memory — 
for  some  things." 

They  walked  together  in  silence  a  little  way, 
and  dreamed,  perchance,  that  they  were  wander- 
ing in  Oberon's  realm  with  Hermia  and  Lysan- 
der.  Then  Sylvia,  stealing  a  shy  glance  at  the 
tall  figure  by  her  side,  acknowledged  that  once 
she  filled  the  role  of  Titania  in  a  schoolroom 
version  of  the  play. 

"We  had  no  man,"  she  said,  "but  the  masks 
and  costumes  served  us  well.  After  a  day's 
study  I  could  be  a  Fairy  Queen  once  more. 

"  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again ; 
Mine  ear  is  much  enraptured  of  thy  note " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  The  next  lines  were 
distinctly  amorous.  He  laughed  with  ready 
appreciation  of  her  difficulty,  but  generously 
provided  a  way  out. 

"Poor  mortal!"  he  tittered.  "And  must  I 
wear  an  ass's  head  to  be  in  character!" 

A  loud  report,  and  then  another,  brought 
them  back  rudely  from  a  make-believe  wood 
near  Athens  to  a  peril-haunted  park  in  an  Eng- 
lish county.  For  the  second  time  that  night 
Sylvia  knew  what  fear  meant.  Intuitively,  she 


296  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

shrank  close  to  the  strong  man  who  seemed 
destined  to  be  her  protector ;  and  when  an  arm 
clasped  her  again,  she  cowered  close  to  its 
sheltering  embrace. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  wailed  in  terror. 

"It  is  hard  to  say,"  he  answered  quietly,  and 
the  confidence  in  his  voice  was  the  best  assur- 
ance of  safety  he  could  have  given.  "Those 
shots  were  fired  from  some  sort  of  rifle,  not 
of  the  same  caliber  as  that  which  was  used  this 
morning,  but  unquestionably  a  rifle.  Perhaps 
it  is  one  of  these  modern  pistols.  I  don't  wish 
to  alarm  you  needlessly,  Miss  Manning,  but 
there  is  some  probability  that  the  police  have 
discovered  the  man  who  killed  Mr.  Fenley,  and 
there  is  a  struggle  going  on.  At  any  rate,  let 
us  remain  out  here  in  the  open.  We  shall  be 
as  safe  here  as  anywhere." 
v  Sylvia,  who  had  not  been  afraid  to  venture 
alone  into  the  park  at  midnight,  was  now  in  a 
quite  feminine  state  of  fright.  She  clung  to 
Trenholme  without  any  pretense  of  other  feel- 
ing than  one  of  unbounded  trust.  Her  heart 
was  pounding  frantically,  and  she  was  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot. 

The  police  whistles  were  shrilling  their  in- 
sistent summons  for  help,  and  Trenholme  knew 
that  the  commotion  had  arisen  in  the  exact  part 
of  the  Quarry  Wood  whence  the  murderous  bul- 
let had  sped  that  morning.  He  was  unarmed, 
of  course,  being  devoid  of  even  such  a  mildly 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  297 

aggressive  weapon  as  a  walking-stick,  but  there 
was  doubt  in  his  mind  that  the  best  thing  to  do 
was  to  stand  fast.  He  was  not  blind  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  imminent  danger,  for  the  very  spot 
they  had  reached  lay  in  a  likely  line  of  retreat 
for  any  desperado  whom  the  police  might  have 
discovered  and  be  pursuing.  Naturally  he  took 
it  for  granted  that  the  criminal  had  fired  the 
two  shots,  and  the  fact  that  the  whistles  were 
still  in  full  blast  showed  that  the  chase  had  not 
been  abandoned. 

Still,  the  only  course  open  was  to  take  such 
chances  as  came  their  way.  He  could  always 
shield  the  girl  with  his  own  body,  or  tell  her 
to  lie  flat  on  the  ground  while  he  closed  with 
an  assailant  if  opportunity  served.  Being  a 
level-headed,  plucky  youngster,  he  was  by  no 
means  desirous  of  indulging  in  deeds  of  derring- 
do.  The  one  paramount  consideration  was  the 
safe  conduct  of  Sylvia  to  the  house,  and  he 
hoped  sincerely  that  if  a  miscreant  were  trying 
to  escape,  he  would  choose  any  route  save  that 
which  led  from  the  wood  to  Eoxton  village. 

"Don't  hesitate  if  I  bid  you  throw  yourself 
down  at  full  length,"  he  said,  unconsciously 
stroking  Sylvia's  hair  with  his  free  hand.  "In 
a  minute  or  two  we'll  make  for  the  avenue. 
Meanwhile,  let  us  listen.  If  any  one  is  coming 
in  this  direction  we  ought  to  hear  him,  and 
forewarned  is  forearmed." 

Choking  back  a  broken  question,  she  strove 


298  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

submissively  to  check  her  distressed  sobbing. 
Were  it  not  for  the  hubbub  of  thousands  of 
rooks  and  pheasants  they  would  assuredly  have 
caught  the  sounds  of  Hilton  Fenley's  panic- 
stricken  onrush  through  the  trees.  As  it  was, 
he  saw  them  first,  and,  even  in  his  rabid  frenzy, 
recognized  Sylvia.  It  was  only  to  be  expected 
that  he  should  mistake  Trenholme  for  his 
brother,  and  in  a  new  spasm  of  fright,  he  recol- 
lected he  was  carrying  the  rifle.  Eobert  Fenley, 
of  course,  would  identify  it  at  a  glance,  and 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  more  than  suspicious  at 
sight  of  it.  With  an  oath,  he  threw  the  telltale 
weapon  back  among  the  undergrowth,  and,  sum- 
moning the  last  shreds  of  his  shattered  nerves 
to  lend  some  degree  of  self-control,  walked 
rapidly  out  into  the  open  park. 

Sylvia  saw  him  and  shrieked.  Trenholme 
was  about  to  thrust  her  behind  him,  when  some 
familiar  attribute  about  the  outline  of  the  ap- 
proaching figure  caused  her  to  cry — 

"Why,  it's  Hilton!" 

"Yes,  Sylvia,"  came  the  breathless  answer. 
"You  heard  the  firing,  of  course?  The  police 
have  found  some  fellow  in  the  wood.  You  and 
Bob  make  for  the  avenue.  I'm  going  this  way 
in  case  he  breaks  cover  for  the  Roxton  gate. 
Hurry!  You'll  find  some  of  the  men  there. 
Never  mind  about  me.  I'll  be  all  right!" 

He  was  running  while  he  talked,  edging  away 
toward  the  group  of  cedars ;  and,  under  the  con- 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  299 

ditions,  it  was  not  for  Trenholme  to  undeceive 
him  as  to  the  mistake  in  regarding  the  artist  as 
Robert  Fenley.  In  any  event,  the  appearance  of 
Hilton  from  that  part  of  the  wood  seemed  to 
prove  that  the  man  whom  the  law  was  seeking 
could  not  be  in  the  same  locality,  so  Trenholme 
did  not  hesitate  to  urge  Sylvia  to  fall  in  with 
her  " cousin's"  instructions. 

For  the  time,  then,  they  may  be  left  to  pro- 
gress uninterruptedly  to  safety  and  not  very 
prompt  enlightenment;  the  flight  of  the  self- 
confessed  murderer  calls  for  more  immediate 
attention.  Probably,  after  the  first  moment  of 
suspense,  and  when  he  was  sure  that  escape 
was  still  not  utterly  impracticable,  he  intended 
to  cross  the  park  to  the  northwest  and  climb  the 
boundary  wall.  But  a  glimpse  of  the  black  line 
of  trees  daunted  him.  He  simply  dared  not  face 
those  pitiless  sentinels  again.  He  pictured  him- 
self forcing  a  way  through  the  undergrowth  in 
the  dense  gloom  and  failing  perhaps;  for  the 
vegetation  was  wilder  there  than  in  any  other 
portion  of  the  estate.  So,  making  a  detour,  he 
headed  for  the  unencumbered  parkland  once 
more,  and  gained  the  wall  near  Jackson's  farm 
about  the  time  that  Trenholme  and  Sylvia  en- 
tered the  avenue. 

He  was  unquestionably  in  a  parlous  state. 
Bare-headed,  unarmed,  he  could  not  fail  to  at- 
tract attention  in  a  district  where  every  resident 
knew  the  other,  nor  could  he  resist  capture 


300  MORTIMER  FENLEZ 

when  the  hue  and  cry  went  forth.  What  to  do  he 
knew  not.  Even  if  he  managed  to  reach  the  rail- 
way station  unchallenged,  the  last  train  of  the 
day  had  left  for  London  soon  after  eleven,  and 
the  earliest  next  morning  was  timed  for  five 
o  'clock,  too  late  by  many  hours  to  serve  his  des- 
perate need. 

Could  he  hire  a  motor  car  or  bicycle?  The 
effort  was  fraught  with  every  variety  of  risk. 
There  was  a  small  garage  at  Easton,  but  those 
cunning  detectives  would  be  raising  the  country- 
side already,  and  the  telephone  would  close 
every  outlet.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Hilton 
Fenley  realized  that  the  world  is  too  small  to 
hold  a  murderer.  He  was  free,  would  soon  have 
the  choice  of  a  network  of  main  roads  and  lanes 
in  a  rural  district  at  the  dead  hour  of  the  night, 
yet  he  felt  himself  securely  caged  as  some  crea- 
ture of  the  jungle  trapped  in  a  pit. 

Crossing  Jackson's  farmyard,  not  without 
disturbing  a  dog  just  quieting  down  after  the 
preceding  racket,  he  hurried  into  the  village 
street,  having  made  up  his  mind  to  face  the  in- 
evitable and  arouse  the  garage  keeper.  By  the 
irony  of  fate  he  passed  the  cottage  in  which 
Police  Constable  Farrow  was  lying  asleep  and 
utterly  unaware  of  the  prevalent  excitement,  to 
join  in  which  he  would  have  kept  awake  all  that 
night  and  the  next. 

Then  the  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel  befriended 
Fenley  again.  Outside  a  house  stood  Dr. 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  301 

Stern's  car,  a  closed-in  runabout  in  which  both 
the  doctor  and  his  chauffeur  were  sheltered 
from  inclement  weather.  The  chauffeur  was 
lounging  on  the  pavement,  smoking  a  cigarette, 
and  Fenley,  of  course,  recognized  him.  His 
heart  leaped.  Let  him  be  bold  now,  and  he 
might  win  through.  A  handkerchief  wiped 
some  of  the  blood  off  his  face  where  the  skin 
had  been  broken  by  the  trees,  and  he  avoided 
the  glare  of  the  lamps. 

"Hello,  Tom,"  he  said,  "where  is  the  doc- 
tor?" 

"Inside,  sir,"  with  a  glance  toward  an  upper 
room  where  a  light  shone.  "What's  happened 
at  The  Towers,  sir?  Was  it  shooting  I  heard 
a  while  since?" 

"Yes.  A  false  alarm,  though.  The  police 
thought  they  had  found  some  suspicious  char- 
acter in  the  grounds." 

"By  jing,  sir,  did  they  fire  at  him?" 

Fenley  saw  that  the  story  was  weak,  and 
hastened  to  correct  it. 

"No,  no,"  he  said.  "The  police  don't  shoot 
first.  That  was  my  brother,  Kobert.  You  know 
what  a  harebrained  fellow  he  is.  Said  he  fired 
in  order  to  make  the  man  double  back.  But  that 
is  a  small  matter.  Can  I  have  one  word  with 
Dr.  Stern?" 

"I'll  see,  sir,"  and  the  chauffeur  went  to  the 
house. 

Furneaux  had  estimated  Hilton  Fenley  cor- 


302  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

rectly  in  ascribing  to  him  the  quality  of  cold- 
bloodedness. Ninety- jine  men  among  a  hun- 
dred would  have  appropriated  the  motor  ear 
then  and  there,  but  Fenley  saw  by  waiting  a 
minute  and  displaying  the  requisite  coolness  he 
might  succeed  in  throwing  his  pursuers  off  the 
trail  for  some  hours. 

Stern  came.  It  chanced  that  he  was  watch- 
ing a  good  patient  through  a  crisis,  and  would 
be  detained  until  daybreak. 

*  *  Hello,  Hilton, ' '  he  cried.  ' '  What 's  up  now, 
and  what's  the  racket  in  the  park?" 

Fenley  explained,  but  hurried  to  the  vital 
matter. 

"My  car  is  out  of  action,"  he  said.  "I  was 
going  to  the  Easton  garage  to  hire  one  when  I 
saw  yours  standing  here.  Lend  it  to  me  for  a 
couple  of  hours ;  there's  a  good  fellow.  I'll  pay 
well  for  the  use  of  it. ' ' 

"Pay I  Nonsense !  Jump  in !  Take  Mr.  Fen- 
ley where  he  wants  to  go,  Tom.  Where  to  first, 
Hilton!" 

"St.  Albans.  I'm  exceedingly  obliged.  And 
look  here,  Stern,  I  insist  on  paying." 

"We  can  settle  that  afterwards.  Off  with 
you.  I'll  walk  home,  Tom." 

Away  sped  the  car.  Running  through  Easton, 
Fenley  saw  two  policemen  stationed  at  a  cross- 
road. They  signaled  the  car  to  stop,  and  his 
blood  curdled,  but,  in  the  same  instant,  they 
saw  the  chauffeur's  face;  the  other  occupant 


SOME  STAGE  EFFECTS  303 

was  cowering  as  far  back  in  the  shadow  as 
possible. 

"Oh,  it's  Dr.  Stern,"  said  one.  "Bight, 
Tom.  By  the  way,  have  you  seen  anything 
of " 

' '  Go  on,  do ! "  growled  Fenley,  drowning  the 
man's  voice.  "I'm  in  a  vile  hurry." 

That  was  his  last  real  hairbreadth  escape — 
for  that  night,  at  any  rate,  though  other  thrills 
were  in  store.  The  chauffeur  was  greatly  sur- 
prised when  bidden  to  go  on  from  St.  Albans 
to  London,  and  take  the  High  Barnet  road  to 
the  City;  but  Fenley  produced  a  five-pound 
note  at  the  right  moment,  and  the  man  reflected 
that  his  master  would  not  hesitate  to  oblige  a 
wealthy  client,  who  evidently  meant  to  make 
good  the  wear  and  tear  on  the  car. 

In  about  an  hour  Fenley  alighted  on  the  pave- 
ment opposite  the  firm's  premises  in  Bishops- 
gate  Street.  If  a  policeman  had  chanced  to  be 
standing  there  the  fugitive  would  have  known 
that  the  game  was  up,  but  the  only  wayfarers 
in  that  part  of  the  thoroughfare  were  some 
street  cleaners. 

Now  that  he  saw  a  glimmer  of  light  where 
hitherto  all  was  darkness,  he  was  absolutely 
clear-brained  and  cool  in  manner. 

"Wait  five  minutes,"  he  said.  "I  sha'n't 
detain  you  longer. ' ' 

He  let  himself  in  with  a  master  key,  taken 
from  his  dead  father's  pockets  earlier  by  Tom- 


304  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

linson.  Going  to  the  banker's  private  office,  he 
ransacked  a  safe  and  a  cabinet  with  hasty 
method.  He  secured  a  hat,  an  overcoat,  an  um- 
brella and  a  packed  suitcase,  left  there  for 
emergency  journeys  in  connection  with  the  busi- 
ness, and  was  back  in  the  street  again  within 
less  than  the  specified  time. 

His  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth 
when  he  found  a  policeman  chatting  with  the 
chauffeur,  but  the  man  saluted  him  with  a  civil 
' '  Good  morning ! ' ' 

In  the  City  of  London,  which  is  deserted  as 
a  cemetery  from  ten  o'clock  at  night  till  six  in 
the  morning,  the  police  keep  a  sharp  eye  on 
waiting  cabs  and  automobiles  between  these 
hours,  and  invariably  inquire  their  business. 

This  constable  was  quite  satisfied  that  all  was 
well  when  he  saw  Mr.  Hilton  Fenley,  whom  he 
knew  by  sight.  In  any  event,  the  flying  mur- 
derer was  safer  than  he  dared  hope  in  that  place 
and  at  that  time.  The  Roxton  telephonic  sys- 
tem was  temporarily  useless  in  so  far  as  it 
affected  his  movements;  for  a  fire  had  broken 
out  at  The  Towers,  and  the  flames  of  the  burn- 
ing roof  had  been  as  a  beacon  for  miles  around 
during  the  whole  of  the  time  consumed  by  the 
run  to  London. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY 

WINTEB  was  in  the  Quarry  Wood  and  feeling 
his  way  but  trusting  to  hands  and  feet  when  he 
heard,  and  soon  saw,  Furneaux  and  the  two  con- 
stables coming  toward  him.  The  little  detective 
held  the  electric  torch  above  his  head,  and  was 
striding  on  without  looking  to  right  or  left. 
The  bitterness  of  defeat  was  in  his  face.  Life 
had  turned  to  gall  and  wormwood.  As  the  ex- 
pressive American  phrase  has  it,  he  was  chew- 
ing mud. 

The  Superintendent  smiled.  He  knew  what 
torment  his  friend  was  suffering. 

"Hello,  there!"  he  said  gruffly,  and  the  three 
men  jumped,  for  their  nerves  were  on  edge. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Napoleon,"  yelped  Furneaux. 
"Behold  Soult  and  his  army  corps,  come  to 
explain  how  Sir  John  Moore  dodged  him  at 
Corunna. ' ' 

"You've  lost  your  man,  then?" 

"Botched  the  job  at  the  moment  of  victory. 
And  all  through  a  rope  end." 

"Tush!    That  isn't  in  your  line." 

"Must  I  be  lashed  by  your  wit,  tool  The 
rope  was  applied  to  me,  not  to  Fenley." 

305 


306'  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  sir,"  broke  in  one 
of  the  astounded  policemen,  "that  you  think 
Mr.  Hilton  killed  his  own  father!" 

"Was  it  you  who  got  that  punch  in  the 
tummy?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  save  your  breath.  You'll  want  it 
when  the  muscles  stiffen.  'Ore  nom  d'lw  pipe! 
To  think  that  I,  Furneaux  of  the  Yard,  should 
queer  the  finest  pitch  I  ever  stood  on." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Charles,"  said  Winter. 
"Don't  cry  over  spilt  milk.  You'll  catch  Fen- 
ley  all  right  before  the  weather  changes.  What 
really  happened ! ' ' 

Aware  of  the  paramount  necessity  of  sup- 
pressing his  personal  woes,  Furneaux  at  once 
gave  a  graphic  and  succinct  account  of  Fenley's 
imminent  capture  and  escape.  He  was  scrupu- 
lously fair,  and  exonerated  his  assistants  from 
any  share  of  the  blame — if  indeed  any  one  could 
be  held  accountable  for  the  singular  accident 
which  precipitated  matters  by  a  few  vital 
seconds. 

Had  Fenley  reached  the  ground  before  the 
torch  revealed  the  detective's  presence,  the  lat- 
ter would  have  closed  with  him  instantly,  throw- 
ing the  torch  aside,  and  thus  taking  the  prisoner 
at  the  disadvantage  which  the  fortune  of  war 
had  brought  to  bear  against  the  law.  Fur- 
neaux was  wiry  though  slight,  and  he  could 
certainly  have  held  his  man  until  reenforoe- 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      307 

ments  came;  nor  would  the  constables'  lamps 
have  been  extinguished  during  the  melee. 

"Then  he  has  vanished,  rifle  and  all,"  said 
Winter,  when  Furneaux  had  made  an  end. 

"As  though  the  earth  had  swallowed  him.  A 
thousand  years  ago  it  would  have  done  so,"  was 
the  humiliated  confession. 

"None  of  you  have  any  notion  which  direction 
he  took?" 

"1  received  such  a  whack  on  the  skull  that  I 
believe  he  disappeared  in  fire,"  said  Furneaux. 
"My  friend  here,"  turning  to  the  policeman 
who  had  voiced  his  amazement  at  the  sugges- 
tion that  Hilton  Fenley  was  a  murderer,  "was 
in  the  position  of  Bret  Harte's  negro  lecturer 
on  geology,  while  this  other  stalwart  thought  he 
had  been  kicked  by  a  horse.  We  soon  recovered, 
but  had  to  grope  for  each  other.  Then  I 
called  the  heavens  to  witness  that  I  was 
dished." 

"That  gave  us  a  chance  of  salvage,  anyhow," 
said  Winter.  "I  'phoned  the  Eoxton  Inspector, 
and  he  will  block  the  roads.  When  he  has  com- 
municated with  St.  Albans  and  some  other  cen- 
ters we  should  have  a  fairly  wide  net  spread. 
Bates  is  coming  from  the  lodge  to  take  charge 
of  a  search  party  to  scour  the  woods.  We  want 
that  rifle.  He  must  have  dropped  it  somewhere. 
He'll  make  for  a  station  in  the  early  morning. 
He  daren't  tramp  the  country  without  a  hat 
and  in  a  black  suit." 


308  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Winter  was  trying  to  put  heart  into  his  col- 
league, but  Furneaux  was  not  to  be  comforted. 
The  truth  was  that  the  blow  on  the  head  had 
been  a  very  severe  one.  Unfortunately,  he  had 
changed  his  hard  straw  hat  for  a  soft  cap  which 
gave  hardly  any  protection.  Had  Fenley's 
perch  been  a  few  inches  lower  when  he  delivered 
that  vindictive  thrust,  Scotland  Yard  would 
probably  have  lost  one  of  its  most  zealous 
officers. 

So  the  Jerseyman  said  nothing,  having  noth- 
ing to  say  that  was  fit  for  the  ears  of  the  local 
constabulary,  and  Winter  suggested  that  they 
should  return  to  the  mansion  and  give  Bates  in- 
structions. Then  he,  Winter,  would  telephone 
Headquarters,  have  the  main  roads  watched, 
and  the  early  Continental  trains  kept  under  sur- 
veillance. 

Furneaux,  torch  in  hand,  at  once  led  the  way. 
Thus  the  party  was  visible  before  it  entered  the 
avenue,  and  two  young  people  who  had  bridged 
months  of  ordinary  acquaintance  in  one  moment 
of  tragedy,  being  then  on  the  roadway,  saw  the 
gleam  of  light  and  waited. 

"Good!"  cackled  the  little  detective  when  his 
glance  fell  on  them.  "I'm  glad  to  see  there's 
one  live  man  in  the  bunch.  I  presume  you've 
disposed  of  Mr.  Eobert  Fenley,  Mr.  Tren- 
holme?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  artist.  "His  affairs  seem  to 
be  common  property.  His  brother  evidently 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      309 

knew  he  was  out  of  doors,  and  now 
you " 

Furneaux  woke  up  at  that. 

"His  brother!  How  can  you  know  what  his 
brother  knew?" 

"Mr.  Hilton  Fenley  saw  Miss  Manning  and 
myself,  and  mistook  me  for " 

4 'Saw  you  I    When?" 

"About  five  minutes  ago,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wood." 

"What  did  he  say?    Quick!" 

"He  told  us  that  the  shooting  was  the  out- 
come of  your  efforts  to  catch  some  man  hiding 
among  the  trees." 

"Of  my  efforts?" 

' '  He  didn  't  mention  you  by  name.  The  words 
he  used  were  'the  police/  He  was  taking  part 
in  the  chase,  I  suppose." 

"Which  way  did  he  go?" 

Trenholme  hesitated.  Not  only  was  he  not 
quite  conversant  with  the  locality,  but  his 
shrewd  wits  had  reached  a  certain  conclusion, 
and  he  did  not  wish  to  be  too  outspoken  before 
Sylvia.  Surely  she  had  borne  sufficient  for  one 
day. 

Thereupon  the  girl  herself  broke  in. 

"Hilton  went  toward  the  cedars.  He  may  be 
making  for  the  Easton  gate.  Have  you  caught 
any  man?" 

"Not  yet,  Miss  Manning,"  said  Winter,  as- 
suming control  of  the  situation  with  a  firm  hand. 


310  MORTIMER  FENLET 

"I  advise  yon  to  go  straight  to  your  room, 
and  not  stir  out  again  tonight.  There  will 
be  no  more  disturbance — I  promise  you 
that." 

Even  the  chief  of  the  C.  I.  D.  can  err  when 
he  prophesies.  At  that  instant  the  two  lines 
of  trees  lost  their  impenetrable  blackness. 
Their  foliage  sprang  into  red-tinted  life  as  if 
the  witches  of  the  Brocken  had  chosen  a  new 
meeting-place,  and  a  crackling,  tearing  sound 
rent  the  air. 

"Oh!"  screamed  Sylvia,  who  chanced  to  be 
facing  the  mansion.  "The  house  is  on  fire!" 

They  were  standing  in  a  group,  almost  where 
Police  Constable  Farrow  had  stood  at  ten  min- 
utes past  ten  the  previous  morning.  Hence 
they  were  aware  of  this  addition  to  the  day's 
horrors  before  the  house  servants,  who,  headed 
by  Tomlinson,  were  gathered  on  and  near  the 
flight  of  steps  at  the  entrance.  Every  female 
servant  in  the  establishment  was  there  as  well, 
not  outside  the  door,  but  quaking  in  the  hall. 
MacBain  was  the  first  among  the  men  to  realize 
what  was  happening.  He  caught  the  loud  clang 
of  an  automatic  fire  alarm  ringing  in  his  room, 
and  at  once  called  the  house  fire  brigade  to  run 
out  the  hose  while  he  dashed  upstairs  into  the 
north  corridor,  from  which  a  volume  of  smoke 
was  pouring. 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried,  on  reaching  the 
cross  gallery.  "It's  in  Mr.  Fenley's  rooms!" 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      311 

Mr.  Fenley's  rooms !  No  need  to  tell  the  hor- 
rified staff  which  rooms  he  meant.  A  fire  was 
raging  in  the  private  suite  of  the  dead 
man! 

The  residence  was  singularly  well  equipped 
with  fire-extinguishing  appliances.  Mortimer 
Fenley  had  seen  to  that.  Hand  grenades,  pro- 
ducing carbonic  acid  gas  generated  by  mixing 
water  with  acid  and  alkali,  were  stored  in  con- 
venient places,  and  there  was  a  plentiful  supply 
of  water  from  many  hose  pipes.  The  north  and 
south  galleries  looked  on  to  an  internal  court- 
yard, so  there  was  every  chance  of  isolating  the 
outbreak  if  it  were  tackled  vigorously;  and  no 
fault  could  be  found  with  either  the  spirit  or 
training  of  the  amateur  brigade.  Consequently, 
only  two  rooms,  a  bedroom  an  adjoining  dress- 
ing-room, were  well  alight;  these  were  burned 
out  completely.  A  sitting-room  on  one  side  was 
badly  scorched,  as  was  a  spare  room  on  the 
other;  but  the  men  soon  knew  that  they  had 
checked  the  further  progress  of  the  flames,  and 
were  speculating,  while  they  worked,  as  to  the 
cause  of  a  fire  originating  in  a  set  of  empty 
apartments,  when  Parker,  Mrs.  Fenley's  per- 
sonal attendant,  came  sobbing  and  distraught  to 
Sylvia. 

' '  Oh,  miss ! ' '  she  cried.  ' '  Oh,  miss !  Where 
is  your  aunt?" 

" Isn't  Mrs.  Fenley  in  her  room?"  asked  the 
girl,  yielding  to  a  sense  of  neglect  in  not  having 


312  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

gone  to  see  if  Mrs.  Fenley  was  alarmed,  though 
the  older  woman  was  not  in  the  slightest  dan- 
ger. The  two  main  sections  of  the  building 
were  separated  by  an  open  space  of  forty 
feet,  and  The  Towers  had  exceedingly  thick 
walls. 

"No,  miss.  I  can't  find  her  anywhere !"  said 
the  woman,  well  aware  that  if  any  one  was  at 
fault  it  was  herself.  "You  know  when  I  saw 
you.  I  went  back  then,  and  she  was  sleeping,  so 
I  thought  I  could  leave  her  safely.  Oh,  miss, 
what  has  become  of  her?  Maybe  she  was 
aroused  by  the  shooting ! ' ' 

All  hands  that  could  be  spared  from  the  fire- 
fighting  operations  engaged  instantly  in  an 
active  search,  but  there  was  no  clue  to  Mrs. 
Fenley 's  disappearance  beyond  an  open  door 
and  a  missing  night  light.  The  electric  current 
was  shut  off  at  the  main  at  midnight,  except 
on  a  special  circuit  communicating  with  the  hall, 
the  courtyard,  and  MacBain's  den,  where  he 
had  control  of  these  things. 

High  and  low  they  hunted  without  avail,  until 
MacBain  himself  stumbled  over  a  calcinated 
body  in  the  murdered  banker's  bedroom.  The 
poor  creature  had  waked  to  some  sense  of  dis- 
aster. Vague  memories  of  the  morning's  hor- 
ror had  led  her,  night  light  in  hand,  to  the  spot 
where  she  fancied  she  would  find  the  one  person 
on  earth  in  whom  she  placed  confidence,  for 
Mortimer  Fenley  had  always  treated  her  with 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      313 

kindness,  even  if  his  methods  were  not  in  accord 
with  the  commonly  accepted  moral  code. 

Presumably,  on  discovering  that  the  rooms 
were  empty,  some  further  glimmering  knowl- 
edge had  stirred  her  benumbed  consciousness. 
She  may  have  flung  herself  on  the  bed  in  a 
paroxysm  of  weeping,  heedless  of  the  over- 
turned night  light  and  the  havoc  it  caused. 
That,  of  course,  is  sheer  guesswork,  though  the 
glass  dish  which  held  the  light  was  found  later 
on  the  charred  floor,  which  was  protected,  to 
some  extent,  by  a  thick  carpet. 

At  any  rate,  she  had  not  long  survived  the 
husband  who  had  given  her  a  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance for  which  she  was  ill  fitted.  They 
were  buried  in  the  same  grave,  and  Hertford- 
shire sent  its  thousands  to  the  funeral. 

Soon  after  her  fate  became  known,  Winter 
wanted  Furneaux,  but  his  colleague  was  not  in 
the  house.  The  telephone  having  broken  down, 
owing  to  the  collapse  of  a  standard,  and  the 
necessity  of  subduing  the  fire  having  put  a  stop 
to  any  immediate  search  being  made  in  the  park, 
Winter  thought  that  the  pair  of  them  would 
be  better  employed  if  they  transferred  their 
energies  to  the  local  police  station. 

He  found  Furneaux  seated  on  the  lower- 
most step  at  the  entrance;  the  Jerseyman  was 
crying  as  if  his  heart  would  break,  and  Tren- 
holme  was  trying  to  comfort  him,  but  in 
vain. 


314  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

"What's  up  now?"  inquired  the  Superin- 
tendent, thinking  at  the  moment  that  his  friend 
and  comrade  was  giving  way  to  hysteria  in- 
directly owing  to  the  blow  he  had  received. 

Furneaux  looked  up.  It  was  the  darkest  hour 
of  the  night,  and  his  chief  could  not  see  the  dis- 
traught features  wrung  with  pain. 

"James,"  he  said,  mastering  his  voice  by  a 
fierce  effort,  "my  mad  antics  killed  that  un- 
fortunate woman!  She  was  aroused  by  the 
shots.  She  would  cry  for  help,  and  none  came. 
Heavens !  I  can  hear  her  now !  Then  she  ran 
for  refuge  to  the  man  who  had  been  everything 
to  her  since  she  was  a  barrack  room  kid  in 
India.  I'm  done,  old  fellow.  I  resign.  I  can 
never  show  my  face  in  the  Yard  again. ' ' 

"It'll  do  you  a  world  of  good  if  you  talk," 
said  Winter,  meaning  to  console,  but  uncon- 
sciously wounding  by  cruel  sarcasm. 

"I'll  be  dumb  enough  after  this  night's 
work,"  said  Furneaux,  in  a  tone  of  such  utter 
dejection  that  Winter  began  to  take  him  seri- 
ously. 

"If  you  fail  me  now,  Charles,"  he  said,  and 
his  utterance  was  thick  with  anger  at  the  crass- 
ness  of  things,  "I'll  consider  the  advisability  of 
sending  in  my  own  papers.  Dash  it!"  He  said 
something  quite  different,  but  his  friends  may 
read  this  record,  and  they  would  repudiate  an 
exact  version  with  scorn  and  disbelief.  "Are 
we  going  to  admit  ourselves  beaten  by  a  half- 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY.      315 

bred  hound  like  Hilton  Fenley?  Not  if  I  know 
it,  or  I  know  you.  We  Ve  got  the  noose  'round 
his  neck,  and  you  and  I  will  pull  it  tight  if  we 
have  to  follow  him  to " 

" Pardon  the  interruption,  gentlemen,"  said 
a  voice.  "I  was  called  out  o'  bed  to  come  to 
the  fire,  an'  took  a  short  cut  across  the  park. 
Blow  me  if  I  didn't  kick  my  foot  against 
this!" 

And  Police  Constable  Farrow,  who  had  ap- 
proached unnoticed,  held  out  an  object  which 
seemed  to  be  a  rifle.  Owing  to  his  being  seated 
Furneaux's  eyes  were  on  a  level  with  it,  and 
he  could  see  more  clearly  than  the  others.  He 
struck  a  match;  then  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  the  policeman  had  actually  picked  up  the 
weapon  which  had  set  in  motion  so  many  and 
such  varied  vicissitudes. 

But  Farrow  had  more  to  say.  It  had  been  his 
happy  lot  during  many  hours  to  figure  bravely 
in  the  Fenley  case,  and  he  carried  himself  as  a 
valiant  man  and  true  to  the  end. 

"I  think  I  heard  you  mention  Mr.  Hilton," 
he  went  on.  "I  met  Dr.  Stern  in  the  village,  an* 
he  tol'  me  Mr.  Hilton  had  borrowed  his  car." 

Furneaux  stood  up. 

"Continue,  Solomon,"  he  said,  and  Winter 
sighed  with  relief;  the  little  man  was  himself- 
again. 

"That's  all,  gentlemen,  or  practically  all.  It 
struck  me  as  unusual,  but  Dr.  Stem  said  Mr. 


316  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

Hilton's  motor  was  out  o'  gear,  an'  he  wanted 
a  car  in  a  desp'rit  hurry." 

"He  did,  indeed!"  growled  Furneaux. 
"  You  're  quite  sure  there  is  no  mistake?" 

" Mistake,  sir?  How  could  there  be?  The 
doctor  was  walkin'  home.  That's  an  unusual 
thing.  He  never  walks  a  yard  if  he  can  help  it. 
Mr.  Hilton  borrowed  the  car  to  go  to  St. 
Albans." 

"Did  he,  indeed?  Just  how  did  he  come  to 
find  the  car  waiting  for  him?" 

"Oh,  that's  the  queer  part  of  it.  Dr.  Stern 
is  lookin'  after  poor  old  Joe  Bland,  who's 
mighty  bad  with — there,  now,  if  I  haven't  gone 
and  forgotten  the  name;  something-itis — and 
Mr.  Hilton  must  have  seen  the  car  standin'  out- 
side Eland's  house.  But  what  was  he  doin'  in 
Roxton  at  arf  past  twelve?  That's  wot  beats 
me.  And  then,  just  fancy  me  stubbin'  my  toe 
against  this!" 

Again  he  displayed  the  rifle  as  if  it  were  an 
exhibit  and  he  were  giving  evidence. 

"Let's  go  inside  and  get  a  light,"  said*  Win- 
ter, and  the  four  mounted  the  steps  into  the 
hall.  Robert  Fenley  was  there — red-faced  as 
ever,  for  he  had  helped  in  putting  out  the  fire, 
but  quite  sober,  since  he  had  been  very 
sick. 

Some  lamps  and  candles,  gave  a  fair  amount 
of  light,  and  Robert  eyed  Trenholme  viciously. 

"So  it  was  you!"  he  said.     "I  thought  it 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      317 

was.  Well,  my  father  and  mother  are  both 
dead,  and  this  is  no  time  for  settlin'  matters; 
but  I'll  look  you  up  when  this  business  is  all 
over. '  ' 

"If  you  do,  you'll  get  hurt,"  said  Winter 
brusquely.  ' '  Is  that  your  rifle  ? ' '  and  he  pointed 
to  the  weapon  in  Farrow's  hands. 

"Yes.    Where  was  it  found?" 

"In  the  Quarry  Wood,  sir,  but  a 'most  in  the 
park,"  said  the  policeman. 

"Has  it  been  used  recently?" 

Fenley  could  hardly  have  put  a  question  bet- 
ter calculated  to  prove  his  own  innocence  of  any 
complicity  in  the  crime. 

Winter  took  the  gun,  meaning  to  open  the 
breech,  but  he  and  Furneaux  simultaneously  no- 
ticed a  bit  of  black  thread  tied  to  one  of  the 
triggers.  It  had  been  broken,  and  the  two  loose 
ends  were  some  inches  in  length. 

1 1  That  settles  it, ' '  muttered  Furneaux.  ' l  The 
scoundrel  fixed  it  to  a  thick  branch,  aimed  it 
carefully  on  more  than  one  occasion — look  at 
the  sights,  set  for  four  hundred  yards — and 
fired  it  by  pulling  a  cord  from  his  bedroom  win- 
dow when  he  saw  his  father  occupying  the  exact 
position  where  the  sighting  practiced  on  Mon- 
day and  Tuesday  showed  that  a  fatal  wound 
would  be  inflicted.  The  remaining  length  of 
cord  was  stronger  than  this  packing  thread, 
which  was  bound  to  give  way  first  when  force 
was  applied.  .  .  .  Well,  that  side  of  the 


318  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

question  didn't  bother  us  much,  did  it, 
Winter  I " 

"May  I  ask  who  you're  talking  about?"  in- 
quired Robert  Fenley  hoarsely. 

"About  that  precious  rogue,  your  half- 
brother,"  was  the  answer.  "That  is  why  he 
went  to  his  bedroom,  one  window  of  which  looks 
out  on  the  park  and  the  other  on  the  east  front, 
where  he  watched  his  father  standing  to  light  a 
cigar  before  entering  the  motor.  He  laid  the 
cord  before  breakfast,  knowing  that  Miss  Man- 
ning's habit  of  bathing  in  the  lake  would  keep 
gardeners  and  others  from  that  part  of  the 
grounds.  When  the  shot  was  fired  he  pulled 
in  the  cord " 

"I  saw  him  doing  that,"  interrupted  Tren- 
holme,  who,  after  one  glance  at  the  signs  of  his 
handiwork  on  Robert  Fenley 's  left  jaw,  had  de- 
voted his  attention  to  the  extraordinary  story 
revealed  by  the  detectives. 

"You  saw  him!"  And  Furneaux  wheeled 
round  in  sudden  wrath.  "Why  the  deuce  didn  Jt 
you  tell  me  that!" 

"You  never  asked  me." 

"How  could  I  ask  you  such  a  thing?  Am  I  a 
necromancer,  a  wizard,  or  eke  a  thought 
reader?" 

Trenholme  favored  the  vexed  little  man  with 
a  contemplative  look. 

"I  think  you  are  all  those,  and  a  jolly  clever 
art  critic  as  well,"  he  said. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      319 

Furneaux  was  discomfited,  and  Winter  nearly 
laughed.  But  the  matter  at  issue  was  too  im- 
portant to  be  treated  with  levity. 

1 '  Tell  us  now  what  you  saw,  Mr.  Trenholme, ' ' 
he  said. 

"When  the  shot  was  fired,  I  recognized  it  as 
coming  from  a  high- velocity  rifle,"  said  the 
artist.  "I  was  surprised  that  such  a  weapon 
should  be  used  in  an  enclosed  park  of  this  na- 
ture, and  looked  toward  the  house  to  discover 
whether  or  not  any  heed  would  be  given  to  the 
incident  there.  From  where  I  was  seated  I 
could  see  the  whole  of  the  south  front,  but  not 
the  east  side,  where  the  brass  fittings  of  the 
automobile  alone  were  visible,  glinting  through 
and  slightly  above  a  yew  hedge. 

"Now,  when  Miss  Manning  returned  to  the 
house  and  entered  by  way  of  a  window  on  the 
ground  floor,  I  noticed  that  no  other  window 
was  open.  But  after  the  report  of  the  gun,  I 
saw  the  end  window  of  the  first  floor  on  the 
southeast  side  slightly  raised — say  six  inches; 
and  some  one  in  the  room  was,  as  I  regarded  it, 
gesticulating,  or  making  signs.  That  continued 
nearly  half  a  minute  and  then  ceased.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  person  behind  the  glass  was  a 
man  or  a  woman,  but  some  one  was  there,  and 
engaged  in  the  way  I  have  described.  If  your 
theory  is  correct,  the  motions  would  be  precisely 
those  you  suggest,  similar  to  those  of  a  fisher- 
man reeling  in  a  line." 


320  MORTIMER  FENLET 

"Your  simile  happens  to  be  exact,"  said  Win- 
ter. "While  Hilton  Fenley  and  my  friend  here 
were  having  a  dust-up  in  the  Quarry  Wood  I 
searched  his  rooms;  and  among  other  things  I 
came  upon  a  salmon  reel  carrying  an  excep- 
tional quantity  of  line.  So  our  case  is  fairly 
complete.  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  inform  you, 
Mr.  Fenley,  that  not  only  did  your  half-brother 
kill  your  father,  but  he  tried  his  level  best  to 
put  the  crime  on  your  shoulders. 

'  *  He  overreached  himself  in  sending  for  Scot- 
land Yard  men.  We  have  seen  too  much  of  the 
seamy  side  of  life  to  accept  as  Gospel  truth  the 
first  story  we  hear.  The  very  fact  that  Hilton 
Fenley  was  attacking  you  in  your  absence  preju- 
diced us  against  him  at  the  outset.  There  were 
other  matters,  which  I  need  not  go  into  now, 
which  converted  our  dislike  into  active  sus- 
picion. 

"But  it  is  only  fair  that  you  should  under- 
stand how  narrow  was  your  escape  from  arrest. 
Had  the  local  police  been  in  sole  charge  I  am 
bound  to  say  you  would  have  passed  this  night 
in  a  cell.  Luckily  for  you,  Mr.  Furneaux  and  I 
set  our  faces  against  the  notion  of  your  guilt 
from  the  beginning.  Long  before  we  saw  you, 
we  were  keeping  an  eye  on  the  real  criminal. 
When  you  did  appear,  your  conduct  only  con- 
firmed our  belief  in  your  innocence." 

"I  told  you  why,  you  will  remember,"  piped 
Furneaux. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      321 

But  Robert  Fenley  said  no  word.  He  was 
stunned.  He  began  to  feel  ill  again,  and  made 
for  his  room.  Sylvia  had  not  been  seen  since 
she  heard  of  Mrs.  Fenley 's  death.  The  detec- 
tives collected  their  belongings,  which  with  the 
gun  and  a  bag  packed  with  various  articles 
taken  from  Hilton  Fenley 's  suite — the  reel,  for 
instance,  a  suit  of  clothes  bearing  marks,  pos- 
sibly of  moss,  and  the  leather  portfolio  of 
papers — were  entrusted  to  Farrow  and  another 
constable  for  safe  conveyance.  Accompanied 
by  Trenholme,  they  walked  to  Easton.  On  the 
way  the  artist  supplied  sufficient  details  of  his 
two  meetings  with  Sylvia  to  put  them  in  pos- 
session of  the  main  incidents.  Furneaux, 
though  suffering  from  a  splitting  headache,  had 
recovered  the  use  of  a  vinegary  tongue. 

"I  was  mistaken  in  you,"  he  chuckled. 
"You're  a  rank  impressionist.  Indeed,  you're 
a  neo-impressionist,  a  get-busy- and-do-it-now 
master  of  art.  .  .  .  But  she's  a  mighty  nice 
girl,  isn  't  she ! ' ' 

"Meaning  Miss  Manning?"  said  Trenholme 
coldly. 

"No.    Eliza." 

"Sorry.    I  misunderstood." 

"  'Ore  nom!    You've  got  it  bad." 

"Got  what  bad?" 

1  '  The  matrimonial  measles.  You  're  sickening 
for  them  now.  One  of  the  worst  symptoms  in 
the  man  is  his  curt  refusal  to  permit  anybody 


322  MORTIMER  FENLET 

else  to  admire  one  bright  particular  star  of 
womanhood.  If  the  girl  hears  another  girl 
gushing  over  the  young  man,  she's  ready  to 
scratch  her  eyes  out.  By  Jove!  It'll  be  many 
a  day  before  you  forget  your  visit  to  Roxton 
Park  this  morning,  or  yesterday  morning,  or 
whenever  it  was. 

"I'm  mixed.  Life  has  been  very  strenuous 
during  the  past  fifteen  hours.  If  you  love  me, 
James,  put  my  poor  head  under  a  pump,  or  I'll 
be  dreaming  that  our  lightning  sketch  per- 
former here,  long  John  Trenholme,  late  candi- 
date for  the  P.  E.  A.,  but  now  devoted  to  the 
cult  of  Hymen,  is  going  to  marry  Eliza,  of  the 
White  Horse,  and  that  the  fair  Sylvia  is  pledged 
to  cook  us  a  dinner  tomorrow  night — or  is  it 
tonight?  Oh,  Gemini,  how  my  head  aches!" 

"Don't  mind  a  word  he's  saying,  Mr.  Tren- 
holme, ' '  put  in  Winter.  ' '  Hilton  Fenley  hit  him 
a  smack  with  that  rifle,  and  it  developed  certain 
cracks  already  well  marked.  But  he 's  a  marvel- 
ously  'cute  little  codger  when  you  make  due 
allowance  for  his  peculiar  ways,  and  he  has  a 
queer  trick  of  guessing  at  future  events  with  an 
accuracy  which  has  surprised  me  more  times 
than  I  can  keep  track  of." 

Trenholme  was  too  good  a  fellow  not  to  put 
up  with  a  little  mild  chaff  of  that  sort.  He 
looked  at  the  horizon,  where  the  faint  streaks  of 
another  dawn  were  beginning  to  show  in  the 
northeast. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  A  TRAGEDY      323 

"Please  God,"  he  said  piously,  "if  I'm 
deemed  worthy  of  such  a  boon,  I'll  marry  Sylvia 
Manning,  or  no  other  woman.  And,  when  the 
chance  offers,  Eliza  of  the  White  Horse  shall 
cook  you  a  dinner  to  make  your  mouth  water. 
Thus  will  Mr.  Furneaux  's  dream  come  true,  be- 
cause dreams  go  by  contraries  1" 


CHAPTER  XVH 

THE  SETTLEMENT 

WINTER  tried  to  persuade  his  mercurial- 
spirited  friend  to  snatch  a  few  hours '  rest.  The 
Police  Inspector  obligingly  offered  a  bed;  but 
short  of  a  positive  order,  which  the  Superin- 
tendent did  not  care  to  give,  nothing  would 
induce  Furneaux  to  let  go  his  grip  on  the  Fen- 
ley  case. 

1  i Wait  till  the  doctor's  car  comes  back,"  he 
urged.  "The  chauffeur  will  carry  the  story  a 
few  pages  farther.  At  any  rate,  we  shall  know 
where  he  dropped  Fenley,  and  that  is  some- 
thing." 

Winter  produced  a  big  cigar,  and  Trenholme 
felt  in  his  pockets  for  pipe  and  tobacco. 

"No,  you  don't,  young  man,"  said  the  big 
man  firmly.  "You're  going  straight  to  your 
room  in  the  White  Horse.  And  I'll  tell  you  why. 
From  what  I  have  heard  about  the  Fenleys,  they 
were  a  lonely  crowd.  Their  friends  were  busi- 
ness associates  and  they  seem  to  own  no  rela- 
tives ;  while  Miss  Manning,  if  ever  she  possessed 
any,  has  been  carefully  shut  away  from  them. 
The  position  of  affairs  in  The  Towers  will 
be  strained  tomorrow.  The  elder  Fenleys  are 


TEE  SETTLEMENT  325 

dead;  one  son  may  be  in  jail — or,  if  he  isn't, 
might  as  well  be — and  the  other,  as  soon  as  he 
feels  his  feet,  will  be  giving  himself  airs.  Now, 
haven't  you  a  mother  or  an  aunt  who  would 
come  to  Roxton  and  meet  Miss  Manning,  and 
perhaps  help  her  to  get  away  from  a  house 
which  is  no  fit  place  for  her  to  live  in  at  pres- 
ent?" 

"My  mother  can  be  here  within  an  hour  of 
the  opening  of  the  telegraph  office,"  said  Tren- 
holme. 

"Write  the  telegram  now,  and  the  constable 
on  night  duty  will  attend  to  it.  When  your 
mother  arrives,  tell  her  the  whole  story,  and 
send  her  to  Miss  Manning.  Don't  go  yourself. 
You  might  meet  Robert  Fenley,  and  he  would 
certainly  be  cantankerous.  If  your  mother  re- 
sembles you,  she  will  have  no  difficulty  in  ar- 
ranging matters  with  the  young  lady." 

"If  I  resemble  my  mother,  I  am  a  very 
fortunate  man,"  said  the  artist  simply. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  that  way,"  was  the 
smiling  comment.  "One  other  thing:  I  don't 
suppose  for  a  minute  that  Miss  Manning  is  ac- 
quainted with  a  reputable  firm  of  solicitors.  If 
she  is,  tell  her  to  consult  them,  and  get  them 
to  communicate  with  Scotland  Yard,  where  I 
shall  supply  or  leave  with  others  certain  infor- 
mation which  should  be  acted  on  promptly  in 
her  behalf.  If,  as  I  expect,  she  knows  no  law- 
yer, see  that  she  takes  this  card  to  the  address 


326  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

on  it  and  give  Messrs.  Gibb,  Morris  &  Gibb  my 
message.  You  understand?" 

"Yes." 

"  Finally,  she  must  be  warned  to  say  nothing 
of  this  to  Eobert  Fenley.  In  fact,  the  less  that 
young  spark  knows  about  her  affairs  the  better. 
After  tonight's  adventure  that  hint  is  hardly 
needed,  perhaps;  but  it  is  always  well  to  be 
explicit.  Now  off  with  you." 

"I'm  not  tired.    Can  I  be  of  any  service?" 

"Yes.  I  want  you  to  be  ready  for  a  long 
day's  work  in  Miss  Manning's  interests.  Mr. 
Furneaux  and  I  may  be  busy  elsewhere.  Un- 
questionably we  shall  not  be  in  Eoxton;  we  may 
even  be  far  from  London.  Miss  Manning  will 
want  a  friend.  See  to  it  that  you  start  the  day 
refreshed  by  some  hours  of  sleep. ' ' ' 

"Good-by,"  said  Trenholme  promptly. 
"Sorry  you  two  will  miss  Eliza's  dinner.  But 
that  is  only  a  feast  deferred.  By  the  way,  if 
I  leave  Eoxton  I'll  send  you  my  address." 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  smiled  the  Super- 
intendent. * '  Our  friend  the  Inspector  here  will 
keep  tab  on  you.  Before  you're  finished  with 
inquests,  police  courts  and  assizes  you'll  wish 
you'd  never  heard  the  name  of  Fenley.  .  .  . 
By  Jove,  I  nearly  forgot  to  caution  you.  Not 
a  word  to  the  press.  .  .  .  Phi-ew !"  he  whistled. 
"If  they  get  on  to  this  story  in  its  entirety, 
won't  they  publish  chapter  and  verse!" 

So  Trenholme  went  out  into  the  village  street 


THE  SETTLEMENT  327 

and  walked  to  his  quarters  in  the  White  Horse 
Tim.  It  was  not  yet  two  o'clock,  but  dawn  had 
already  silvered  the  northeast  arc  of  the  hori- 
zon. Just  twenty  hours  earlier  an  alarm 
clock  had  waked  him  into  such  a  day  as  few 
have  experienced.  Many  a  man  has  been 
brought  unexpectedly  into  intimate  touch  with 
a  tragedy  of  no  personal  concern,  but  seldom 
indeed  do  the  Fates  contrive  that  death  and 
love  and  high  adventure  should  be  so  closely 
bound,  and  packed  pellmell  into  one  long 
day. 

Only  to  think  of  it !  When  he  stole  upstairs 
with  the  clock  to  play  a  trick  on  Eliza,  he  had 
never  seen  Sylvia  nor  so  much  as  heard  her 
name  spoken.  When  he  sang  of  love  and  the 
dawn  while  striding  homeward  through  the 
park,  he  had  seen  her,  yet  did  not  know  her,  and 
had  no  hope  of  ever  seeing  her  again.  When  he 
worked  at  her  picture,  he  had  labored  at  the 
idealization  of  a  dream  which  bade  fair  to  re- 
main a  dream.  And  now  by  some  magic  jug- 
glery of  ordinary  events,  each  well  within  the 
bounds  of  credibility,  yet  so  overwhelmingly  in- 
credible in  their  sequence  and  completeness,  he 
was  Sylvia's  lover,  her  defender,  her  trusted 
knight-errant. 

Even  the  concluding  words  of  that  big,  round- 
headed,  sensible  detective  had  brought  a  fantasy 
nearer  attainment.  If  Sylvia  were  rich,  why 
then  a  youngster  who  painted  pictures  for  a  liv- 


328  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

ing  would  hardly  dare  think  of  marrying  her. 
But  if  Sylvia  were  poor — and  Winter's  com- 
ments seemed  to  show  that  these  financiers  had 
been  financing  themselves  at  her  expense — what 
earthly  reason  was  there  that  she  should  not 
become  Mrs.  John  Trenholme  at  the  earliest 
practicable  date?  None  that  he  could  conceive. 
Why,  a  fellow  would  have  to  be  a  fool  indeed 
who  did  not  know  when  he  had  met  the  one 
woman  in  the  world !  He  had  often  laughed  at 
other  fellows  who  spoke  in  that  way  about  the 
chosen  one.  Now  he  understood  that  they  had 
been  wise  and  he  foolish. 

But  suppose  Sylvia — oh,  dash  it,  no  need 
to  spoil  one's  brief  rest  by  allowing  a  beastly 
doubt  like  that  to  rear  its  ugly  head !  One  thing 
he  was  sure  of — Eobert  Fenley  could  never  be 
a  rival;  and  Fenley,  churl  that  he  was,  had 
known  her  for  years,  and  could  hardly  be  pes- 
tering her  with  his  attentions  if  she  were 
pledged  to  another  man.  Moreover  he,  John, 
newly  in  love  and  tingling  with  the  thrill  of  it, 
fancied  that  Sylvia  would  not  have  clung  to  him 
with  such  complete  confidence  when  the  uproar 
arose  in  the  park  if Well,  well — the  his- 
tory of  the  Fenley  case  will  never  be  brought  to 
an  end  if  any  attempt  is  made  to  analyze  the 
effects  of  love's  first  vigorous  growth  in  the 
artistic  temperament. 

About  a  quarter  past  three  Dr.  Stern's  little 
landaulet  was  halted  at  the  same  cross-road 


THE  SETTLEMENT  329 

where  a  policeman  had  stopped  it  nearly  three 
hours  earlier. 

"That  you,  Tom?"  said  the  constable. 
"You're  wanted  at  the  station." 

"What  station?"  inquired  the  chauffeur. 

"The  police  sation." 

"Am  I,  by  gum?      What's  up?" 

"The  Scotland  Yard  men  want  you." 

"But  what  for?  I  haven't  run  over  so  much 
as  a  hen." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  You're  wanted  as  a  wit- 
ness. Never  mind  why.  They'll  tell  you.  The 
doctor  is  there,  smoking  a  cigar  till  you  turn 
up." 

"I  left  him  at  Joe  Eland's." 

"Joe  Bland  has  left  Eoxton  for  Kingdom 
Come.  And  The  Towers  is  half  burnt  down. 
Things  haven't  been  happening  while  you  were 
away,  have  they?" 

"Not  half,"  said  Tom. 

"No,  nor  quarter,"  grinned  the  policeman  to 
himself  when  the  car  moved  on.  "Wait  till  you 
know  who  you  took  on  that  trip,  and  why,  and 
your  sparkin'-plug'll  be  out  of  order  for  a 
week." 

It  was  as  well  that  the  chauffeur  had  not  the 
slightest  notion  that  he  had  conveyed  a  mur- 
derer to  London  when  he  began  to  tell  his  tale 
to  his  employer  and  the  detectives.  They 
wanted  a  plain,  unvarnished  story,  and  got  it. 
On  leaving  the  offices  in  Bishopsgate  Street, 


330  MORTIMER  FENLEY, 

Fenley  asked  to  be  driven  to  Gloucester  Man- 
sions, Shaftesbury  Avenue.  Tom  had  seen  the 
last  of  him  standing  on  the  pavement,  with  a 
suitcase  on  the  ground  at  his  feet.  He  was 
wearing  an  overcoat  and  a  derby  hat,  and  was 
pressing  an  electric  bell. 

"He  tol'  me  I  needn't  wait,  so  I  made  for 
the  Edgware  Eoad;  an'  that's  all,"  said  Tom. 

* '  Cool  as  a  fish ! ' '  commented  Furneaux. 

"Well,  sir,  I  didn't  get  hot  over  it,"  said  the 
surprised  chauffeur. 

"  I  'm  not  talking  about  you.  Could  you  man- 
age another  run  to  town?  Are  you  too  tired?" 

The  mystified  Tom  looked  at  his  employer. 
Dr.  Stern  laughed. 

* '  Go  right  ahead ! "  he  cried.  "  I  'm  thinking 
of  buying  a  new  car.  A  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  in  one  night  should  settle  the  matter  so 
far  as  this  old  rattletrap  is  concerned." 

"Of  course  we'll  pay  you,  doctor,"  said 
Winter. 

"That's  more  than  Hilton  Fenley  will  ever 
do,  I'm  afraid." 

Tom  tickled  his  scalp  under  his  cap. 

"Mr.  Hilton  gemme  a  fiver,"  he  said  rather 
sheepishly.  There  was  something  going  on  that 
he  did  not  understand,  but  he  thought  it  ad- 
visable to  own  up  with  regard  to  that  lordly  tip. 

"You're  a  lucky  fellow,"  said  the  doctor. 
"What  about  petrol?  And  do  you  feel  able  to 
take  these  gentlemen  to  London?" 


THE  SETTLEMENT  331 

Tom  was  a  wiry  person.  In  five  minutes  lie 
was  on  the  road  again  bound  for  Scotland  Yard 
this  time.  As  a  matter  of  form  a  detective  was 
sent  to  Gloucester  Mansions,  and  came  back 
with  the  not  unforeseen  news  that  Mrs.  Garth 
was  very  angry  at  being  disturbed  at  such  an 
unearthly  hour.  No;  she  had  seen  nothing  of 
Mr.  Hilton  Fenley  since  the  preceding  after- 
noon. Some  one  had  rung  the  bell  about  two 
o'clock  that  morning,  but  the  summons  was  not 
repeated;  and  she  had  not  inquired  into  it, 
thinking  that  a  mistake  had  been  made  and  dis- 
covered by  the  blunderer. 

Sheldon  was  brought  from  his  residence.  He 
had  a  very  complete  report  concerning  Mrs. 
Lisle;  but  that  lady's  shadowy  form  need  not 
flit  across  the  screen,  since  Robert  Fenley 's  in- 
trigues cease  to  be  of  interest.  He  had  dis- 
patched her  to  France,  urging  that  he  must  be 
given  a  free  hand  until  the  upset  caused  by  his 
father's  death  was  put  straight.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  when  he  secured  some  few  hundreds  a  year 
out  of  the  residue  of  the  estate,  he  married  Mrs. 
Lisle,  and  possibly  became  a  henpecked  hus- 
band. The  Garths,  too,  mother  and  daughter, 
may  be  dropped.  There  was  no  getting  any 
restitution  by  them  of  any  share  of  the  proceeds 
of  the  robbery.  They  vowed  they  were  innocent 
agents  and  received  no  share  of  the  plunder. 
Miss  Eileen  Garth  has  taken  up  musical  comedy, 
if  not  seriously  at  least  zealously,  and  com- 


332  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

menced  in  the  chorus  with  quite  a  decent  show 
of  diamonds. 

London  was  scoured  next  morning  for  traces 
of  Hilton  Fenley,  but  with  no  result.  This 
again  fell  in  with  anticipation.  The  brain  that 
could  plan  the  brutal  murder  of  a  father  was 
not  likely  to  fail  when  contriving  its  own  safety. 
Somehow  both  "Winter  and  Furneaux  were  con- 
vinced that  Fenley  would  make  for  Paris,  and 
that  once  there  it  would  be  difficult  to  lay  hands 
on  him.  Furneaux,  be  it  remembered,  had  gone 
very  thoroughly  into  the  bond  robbery,  and  had 
reached  certain  conclusions  when  Mortimer 
Fenley  stopped  the  inquiry. 

In  pursuance  of  this  notion  they  resolved  to 
watch  the  likeliest  ports.  Furneaux  took  Dover, 
Winter  Newhaven  and  Sheldon  Folkestone. 
They  did  not  even  trouble  to  search  the  out- 
going trains  at  the  London  termini,  though  a 
detailed  description  of  the  fugitive  was  circu- 
lated in  the  ordinary  way.  Each  man  traveled 
by  the  earliest  train  to  his  destination  and,  hav- 
ing secured  the  aid  of  the  local  police,  mounted 
guard  over  the  gangways. 

Furneaux  drew  the  prize,  which  was  only  a 
just  compensation  for  a  sore  head  and  sorer 
feelings.  He  had  changed  his  clothing,  but 
adopted  no  other  disguise  than  a  traveling-cap 
pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  Fenley,  like  every  other  intelligent 
person  going  abroad,  was  aware  that  all  per- 


THE  SETTLEMENT  333 

sons  leaving  the  country  are  subjected  to  close 
if  unobtrusive  scrutiny  as  they  step  from  pier  to 
ship.  Fenley,  therefore,  would  have  a  sharp  eye 
for  the  quietly  dressed  men  who  stand  close  to 
the  steamer  officials  at  the  head  of  the  gangway, 
but  would  hardly  expect  to  find  Nemesis  hidden 
in  the  purser's  cabin.  Through  a  porthole  Fur- 
neaux  saw  every  face  and,  on  the  third  essay, 
while  the  fashionable  crowd  which  elects  to  pay 
higher  rates  for  the  eleven  o  'clock  express  from 
Victoria  was  struggling  like  less  exalted  people 
to  be  on  board  quickly,  he  found  his  man  in  the 
thick  of  the  press. 

Fenley  had  procured  a  new  suit,  a  Homburg 
hat,  and  some  baggage.  In  fact,  it  was  learned 
afterwards  that  he  hired  a  taxi  at  Charing 
Cross,  breakfasted  at  Canterbury,  and  made  his 
purchases  there  at  leisure,  before  driving  on  to 
Dover. 

He  passed  between  two  uniformed  policemen 
with  the  utmost  self-possession,  even  pausing 
there  momentarily  to  give  some  instruction  to 
a  porter  about  the  disposition  of  his  portman- 
teaux. That  was  a  piece  of  pure  bravado,  per- 
haps a  final  test  of  his  own  highly  strung 
nerves.  The  men,  of  course,  were  not  watching 
him  or  any  other  individual  in  the  hurrying 
throng.  They  had  a  sharp  eye  for  Furneaux, 
however,  and  when  he  nodded  and  hurried  from 
his  lair  one  of  them  grabbed  Fenley  by  the 
shoulder. 


334  MORTIMER  FENLEY. 

At  that  instant  a  burly  German,  careless  of 
any  one's  comfort  but  his  own,  and  somewhat 
irritated  by  Fenley's  halt  at  the  mouth  of  the 
gangway,  brushed  forward.  His  weight,  and 
Fenley's  quick  flinching  from  that  ominous 
clutch,  loosed  the  policeman's  hold,  and  the 
murderer  was  free  once  more  for  a  few  fleeting 
seconds. 

The  constable  pressed  on,  shoving  the  other 
man  against  the  rail. 

* '  Here.  I  want  you, ' '  he  said,  and  the  quietly 
spoken  words  rang  in  Fenley's  ears  as  if  they 
had  been  bellowed  through  a  megaphone.  Ow- 
ing to  his  own  delay,  there  was  a  clear  space  in 
front.  He  took  that  way  of  escape  instinctively, 
though  he  knew  he  was  doomed,  since  the  ship 's 
officers  would  seize  him  at  the  policeman's  call. 

Then  he  saw  Furneaux,  whose  foot  was  al- 
ready on  the  lower  end  of  the  gangway.  That, 
then,  was  the  end !  He  was  done  for  now.  All 
that  was  left  of  life  was  the  ghastly  progress  of 
the  law's  ceremonial  until  he  was  brought  to 
the  scaffold  and  hanged  amidst  a  whole  nation's 
loathing.  His  eyes  met  Furneaux 's  in  a  glare 
of  deadly  malice.  Then  he  looked  into  eternity 
with  daring  despair,  and  dived  headlong  over 
the  railing  into  the  sea. 

That  awesome  plunge  created  tremendous  ex- 
citement among  the  bystanders  on  quay  and 
ship.  It  was  seen  by  hundreds.  Men  shouted, 
women  screamed,  not  a  few  fainted.  A  sailor 


THE  SETTLEMENT  335 

on  the  lower  deck  ran  with  a  life  felt,  but  Fenley 
never  rose.  His  body  was  carried  out  by  the 
tide,  and  was  cast  ashore  some  days  later  at  the 
foot  of  Shakespeare's  Cliff.  Then  the  poor 
mortal  husk  made  some  amends  for  the  mis- 
deeds of  a  warped  soul.  In  the  pockets  were 
found  a  large  amount  of  negotiable  scrip,  and 
no  small  sum  in  notes  and  gold,  with  the  result 
that  Messrs.  Gibb,  Morris  &  Gibb  were  enabled 
to  recover  the  whole  of  Sylvia  Manning's  for- 
tune, while  the  sale  of  the  estate  provided  suffi- 
ciently for  Kobert  Fenley 's  future. 

The  course  of  true  love  never  ran  smoother 
than  for  John  and  Sylvia.  They  were  so  ob- 
viously made  for  each  other,  they  had  so  deter- 
minedly flown  to  each  other's  arms,  that  it  did 
not  matter  tuppence  to  either  whether  Sylvia 
were  rich  or  poor.  But  it  mattered  a  great 
deal  when  they  came  to  make  plans  for  a  glori- 
ous future.  What  a  big,  grand  world  it  was,  to 
be  sure !  And  how  much  there  was  to  see  in  it ! 
The  Continent,  America,  the  gorgeous  East! 
They  mapped  out  tours  that  would  find  them 
middle-aged  before  they  neared  England  again. 
Does  life  consist  then,  in  flitting  from  hotel  to 
hotel,  from  train  to  steamship?  Not  it.  Ger- 
man Kultur  took  care  to  upset  that  theory. 
John  Trenholme  is  now  a  war-worn  major  in 
the  Gunners,  and  Sylvia  has  only  recently  re- 
turned to  her  home  nest  after  four  years '  serv- 
ice with  the  Red  Cross  in  France. 


336  MORTIMER  FENLEY 

But  these  things  came  later.  One  evening  in 
the  Autumn,  Winter  and  Furneaux  took  Shel- 
don over  to  Roxton  and  dined  with  Dr.  Stern 
and  Tomlinson  at  the  White  Horse.  Tomlinson 
had  bought  the  White  Horse  and  secured  Eliza 
with  the  fixtures.  Of  course,  there  was  talk  of 
the  Fenleys,  and  Winter  told  how  Hilton  Fen- 
ley's  mother  had  been  unearthed  in  Paris.  She 
was  a  spiteful  and  wizened  half-caste;  but  she 
held  her  son  dear,  as  mothers  will,  be  they  black 
or  white  or  chocolate-colored,  and  it  was  to 
maintain  her  in  an  establishment  of  some  style 
that  he  had  begun  to  steal.  She  had  married 
again,  and  the  man  had  gone  through  all  her 
money,  dying  when  there  was  none  left.  She 
retained  his  name,  however,  and  Fenley  adopted 
it,  too,  during  frequent  visits  to  Paris. 
Hence  he  was  known  there  by  a  good  many 
people,  and  could  have  sunk  his  own  personality 
had  he  made  good  his  escape.  The  mother's 
hatred  of  Mortimer  Fenley  had  probably  com- 
municated itself  to  her  son.  When  she  was  told 
of  Hilton's  suicide  and  its  cause,  she  said  that 
if  anything  could  console  her  for  his  death  it 
was  the  fact  that  he  had  avenged  her  wrongs 
on  his  father. 

''What  was  her  grievance  against  poor  Mor- 
timer Fenley  I"  inquired  the  doctor.  "I  knew 
him  well,  and  he  was  a  decent  sort  of  fellow — 
rather  blustering  and  dictatorial  but  not  bad- 
hearted." 


THE  SETTLEMENT  337 

"His  success,  I  believe,"  said  Winter. 
"They  disagreed,  and  she  divorced  him,  think- 
ing he  would  remain  poor.  The  whirligig  of 
time  changed  their  relative  positions,  and  to  a 
jealous-minded  woman  that  was  unforgivable." 

"The  affair  made  a  rare  stir  here  anyhow," 
went  on  the  doctor.  "The  people  who  have 
taken  The  Towers  have  not  only  changed  the 
name  of  the  place,  but  they  have  commissioned 
a  friend  of  mine,  an  architect,  to  alter  the  en- 
trance. There  will  be  two  flights  of  steps  and 
a  covered  porch,  so  the  exact  spot  where  Fenley 
fell  dead  will  be  built  over." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Tomlinson,  "talking  is 
dry  work.  I  haven't  my  old  cellar  to  select 
from,  but  I  can  recommend  the  brands  you  see 
on  the  table.  Mr.  Furneaux,  I'm  sure  you  have 
not  forgotten  that  Chateau  Yquem?" 

Then,  and  not  until  then,  did  the  ex-butler 
hear  that  the  detectives  had  never  tasted  his 
famous  port.  His  benign  features  were  wrung 
with  pain,  for  it  was  a  wine  of  rare  "bowket," 
and  hard  to  replace. 

But  Furneaux  restored  his  wonted  geniality 
by  opening  a  parcel  hitherto  reposing  on  the 
sideboard. 

"I  never  sent  you  that  bottle  of  Alto  Douro," 
he  cried.  "Here  it  is — a  crusted  quart  for  your 
own  drinking.  Lest  you  should  be  tempted  to 
be  too  generous  tonight,  I've  brought  another. 
Now — a  cradle  and  a  corkscrew!" 


338  MORTIMER  FENLEY* 

So,  after  a  dirge,  and  before  the  world  shook 
in  war,  the  story  ends  on  a  lively  note,  for  that 
is  there  to  compare  with  good  wine  and  good 
cheer,  each  in  moderation?  And  one  bottle 
among  five  is  reasonable  enough  in  all  con- 
science. 


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DETECTIVE  STORIES  BY  J.  S.  RETCHER 

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THE  SECRET  OF  THE  BARBICAN 

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THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

GREEN  INK 

THE  KING  versus  WARGRAVE 

THE  LOST  MR.  LINTHWAITE 

THE  MILL  OF  MANY  WINDOWS 

THE  HEAVEN-KISSED  HILL 

THE  MIDDLE  TEMPLE  MURDER 

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Jesi,  a  diminutive  city  of  the  Italian  Marches,  was  the  birth- 
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city  is  glamorous  with  those  centuries  the  author  makes  live  again 
in  his  novels  with  all  their  violence  and  beauty. 

Mr.  Sabatini  first  went  to  school  in  Switzerland  and  from  there 
to  Lycee  of  Oporto,  Portugal,  and  like  Joseph  Conrad,  he  has , 
never  attended  an  English  school.  But  English  is  hardly  an  1 
adopted  language  for  him,  as  he  learned  it  from  his  mother,  an 
English  woman  who  married  the  Maestro-Cavaliere  Vincenzo 
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Today  Rafael  Sabatini  is  regarded  as  "The  Alexandie  Pumas 
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MISTRESS  WILDING 

A  romance  of  the  days  of  Monmouth's  rebellion.  The  action  is  rapid,  it* 
style  is  spirited,  and  its  plot  is  convincing. 

FORTUNE'S  FOOL 

All  who  enjoyed  the  lurid  lights  of  the  French  Revolution  with  Scara* 
mouche,  or  the  brilliant  buccaneering  days  of  Peter  Blood,  or  the  adven- 
tures of  the  Sea-Hawk,  the  corsair,  will  now  welcome  with  delight  a  turn 
in  Restoration  London  with  the  always  masterful  Col.  Randall  Holies. 

BARDELYS  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

An  absorbing  story  of  love  and  adventure  in  Prance  of  the  early  seven- 
teenth century. 

THE  SNARE 

It  is  a  story  in  which  fact  and  fiction  are  delightfully  i/  ,r,ded  and  on* 
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CAPTAIN  BLOOD 

The  story  has  glamor  and  beauty,  and  it  is  told  with  a  ^  easy  confidence. 
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cold  nerves,  and  hot  temper.  Both  the  story  and  the  man  are  masterpieces, 
A  great  figure,  a  great  epoch,  a  great  story. 

THE  SEA-HAWK 

"  The  Sea-Hawk  "  is  a  book  of  fierce  bright  color  ond  amazing  adventur* 
through  which  stalks  one  ot  the  truly  great  and  uia9t«vful  figures  of  ro- 
mance. 

SCARAMOUCHE 

Never  will  the  reader  forget  the  sardonic  Scarsmouche.who  fights  equally 
well  with  tongue  and  rapier,  who  was  "born  wit',i  -he  gift  of  laughter  and  a 
sense  that  the  world  was  mad." 

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THE  MAD  KING 

THE  MOON  MAID 

THE  ETERNAL  LOVER 

BANDIT  OF  HELL'S  BEND,  THE 

CAVE  GIRL,  THE 

LAND  THAT  TIME  FORGOT,  THE 

TARZAN  OF  THE  APES 

TARZAN  AND  THE  JEWELS  OF  OPAR 

TARZAN  AND  THE  ANT  MEN 

TARZAN  THE  TERRIBLE 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

BEASTS  OF  TARZAN,  THE 

RETURN  OF  TARZAN,  THE 

SON  OF  TARZAN,  THE 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

AT  THE  EARTH'S  CORE 

PELLUCIDAR 

THE  MUCKER 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

GODS  OF  MARS,  THE 

WARLORD  OF  MARS,  THE 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

CHESSMEN  OF  MARS,  THE 

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A  GENTLEMAN  OF  COURAGE 

THE  ALASKAN 

THE  COUNTRY  BEYOND 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN 

THE  RIVER'S  END 


THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

NOMADS  OF  THE  NOIVTH 

KAZAN 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

ISOBEL 

THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 


THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 


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WANDERER  OF  THE  WASTELAND 

TO  THE  LAST  MAN 

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THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

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THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

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RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

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THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

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DESERT  GOLD 

BETTY  ZANE 

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DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  profes 
a  rancher  who  lose 

MAN  TO  MAN 

How  Steve  wo 
breathless  situatic 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  ban 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  c 
by  her  foreman.  'With  th 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected' 
plications,  a  horse-race  : 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up 
chagrin.    There  is  "ai 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

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.  Thornton,  bat  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennen,  a  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  finds  a  match 
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"  Lone  Watt" 

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A  college  professor  sets  out  w+th  his  daughter  to  find  gold.   They  meet 
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How  Steve  won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved,  is  a  story  filled  with 
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Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  Journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band. 

PITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RA* 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman. 'With  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's  scheme, 

[E  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected'of  killing  his  brother  after  a  quarrel.  Financial  com- 
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A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  h«r 
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EMERSON    HOUGH'S   NOVELS 

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THE  SHIP  OF  SOULS 

MOTHER  OF  GOLD 

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NORTH  OF  36 

THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN 

THE  SAGEBRUSHER 

THE  GIRL  AT  THE  HALFWAY  HOUSE 

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THE  MAGNIFICENT  ADVENTURE 

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